The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Galaxy, by Various

M. Francisque Sarcey, the dramatic critic of the Paris "Temps," and the gentleman who, of the whole journalistic fraternity, holds the fortune of a play in the hollow of his hand, has been publishing during the last year a series of biographical notices of the chief actors and actresses of the first theatre in the world. "Comédiens et Comédiennes: la Comédie Française"—such is the title of this publication, which appears in monthly numbers of the Librairie des Bibliophiles, and is ornamented on each occasion with a very prettily etched portrait, by M. Gaucherel, of the artist to whom the number is devoted. By lovers of the stage in general, and of the Théâtre Français in particular, the series will be found most interesting; and I welcome the pretext for saying a few words about an institution which—if such language be not hyperbolical—I passionately admire. I must add that the portrait is incomplete, though for the present occasion it is more than sufficient. The list of M. Sarcey's biographies is not yet filled up; three or four, those of Mme. Favart and of MM. Fèbvre and Delaunay, are still wanting. Nine numbers, however, have appeared—the first being entitled "La Maison de Molière," and devoted to a general account of the great theatre; and the others treating of its principal sociétaires and pensionnaires in the following order:

(This order, by the way, is purely accidental; it is not that of age or of merit.) It is always entertaining to encounter M. Francisque Sarcey, and the reader who, during a Paris winter, has been in the habit, of a Sunday evening, of unfolding his "Temps" immediately after unfolding his napkin, and glancing down first of all to see what this sturdy feuilletoniste has found to his hand—such a reader will find him in great force in the pages before us. It is true that, though I myself confess to being such a reader, there are moments when I grow rather weary of M. Sarcey, who has in an eminent degree both the virtues and the defects which attach to the great French characteristic—the habit of taking terribly au sérieux anything that you may set about doing. Of this habit of abounding in one's own cause, of expatiating, elaborating, reiterating, refining, as if for the hour the fate of mankind were bound up with one's particular topic, M. Sarcey is a capital and at times an almost comical representative. He talks about the theatre once a week as if—honestly, between himself and his reader—the theatre were the only thing in this frivolous world that is worth seriously talking about. He has a religious respect for his theme, and he holds that if a thing is to be done at all, it must be done in detail as well as in the gross.

It is to this serious way of taking the matter, to his thoroughly businesslike and professional attitude, to his unwearying attention to detail, that the critic of the "Temps" owes his enviable influence and the weight of his words. Add to this that he is sternly incorruptible. He has his admirations, but they are honest and discriminating; and whom he loveth he very often chasteneth. He is not ashamed to commend Mlle. X., who has only had a curtsey to make, if her curtsey has been the curtsey of the situation; and he is not afraid to overhaul M. A., who has delivered the tirade of the play, if M. A. has failed to hit the mark. Of course his judgment is good; when I have had occasion to measure it, I have usually found it excellent. He has the scenic sense—the theatrical eye. He knows at a glance what will do, and what won't do. He is shrewd and sagacious and almost tiresomely in earnest, but this closes the list of his attractions. He is not witty—to speak of; and he is not graceful; he is heavy and common, and above all what is familiarly called "shoppy." He leans his elbows on his desk, and does up his weekly budget into a parcel the reverse of coquettish. You can fancy him a grocer retailing tapioca and hominy—full weight for the price; his style seems a sort of integument of brown paper. But the fact remains that if M. Sarcey praises a play, the play has a run; and that if M. Sarcey says it won't do, it does not do at all. If M. Sarcey devotes an encouraging line and a half to a young actress, mademoiselle is immediately lancée; she has a career. If he bestows a quiet "bravo" on an obscure comedian, the gentleman may forthwith renew his engagement. When you make and unmake fortunes at this rate, what matters it whether you have a little elegance the more or the less?

Elegance is for M. Paul de St. Victor, who does the theatres in the "Moniteur," and who, though he writes a style only a trifle less pictorial than that of Théophile Gautier himself, has never, to the best of my belief, brought clouds or sunshine to any playhouse. I may add, to finish with M. Sarcey, that he contributes a daily political article—generally devoted to watching and showing up the "game" of the clerical party—to Edmond About's journal, the "XIX^ième Siècle"; that he gives a weekly conférence on current literature; that he "confers" also on those excellent Sunday morning performances now so common in the French theatres, during which examples of the classic repertory are presented, accompanied by a light lecture upon the history and character of the play. As the commentator on these occasions M. Sarcey is in great demand, and he officiates sometimes in small provincial towns. Lastly, frequent playgoers in Paris observe that the very slenderest novelty is sufficient to insure at a theatre the (very considerable) physical presence of the conscientious critic of the "Temps." If he were remarkable for nothing else, he would be remarkable for the fortitude with which he exposes himself to the pestiferous climate of the Parisian temples of the drama.

For these agreeable "notices" M. Sarcey appears to have mended his pen and to have given a fillip to his fancy. They are gracefully and often lightly turned; occasionally, even, the author grazes the epigrammatic. They deal, as is proper, with the artistic and not with the private physiognomy of the ladies and gentlemen whom they commemorate; and though they occasionally allude to what the French call "intimate" matters, they contain no satisfaction for the lovers of scandal. The Théâtre Français, in the face it presents to the world, is an austere and venerable establishment, and a frivolous tone about its affairs would be almost as much out of keeping as if applied to the Académie herself. M. Sarcey touches upon the organization of the theatre, and gives some account of the different phases through which it has passed during these latter years. Its chief functionary is a general administrator, or director, appointed by the State, which enjoys this right in virtue of the considerable subsidy which it pays to the house; a subsidy amounting, if I am not mistaken (M. Sarcey does not mention the sum), to 250,000 francs. The director, however, is not an absolute, but a constitutional ruler; for he shares his powers with the society itself, which has always had a large deliberative voice.

Whence, it may be asked, does the society derive its light and its inspiration? From the past, from precedent, from tradition—from the great unwritten body of laws which no one has in his keeping, but many in their memory, and all in their respect. The principles on which the Théâtre Français rests are a good deal like the common law of England—a vaguely and inconveniently registered mass of regulations which time and occasion have welded together, and from which the recurring occasion can usually manage to extract the rightful precedent. Napoleon I., who had a finger in every pie in his dominion, found time during his brief and disastrous occupation of Moscow to send down a decree remodelling and regulating the constitution of the theatre. This document has long been a dead letter, and the society abides by its older traditions. The traditions of the Comédie Française—that is the sovereign word, and that is the charm of the place—the charm that one never ceases to feel, however often one may sit beneath the classic, dusky dome. One feels this charm with peculiar intensity as a newly arrived foreigner. The Théâtre Français has had the good fortune to be able to allow its traditions to accumulate. They have been preserved, transmitted, respected, cherished, until at last they form the very atmosphere, the vital air, of the establishment. A stranger feels their superior influence the first time he sees the great curtain go up; he feels that he is in a theatre which is not as other theatres are. It is not only better, it is different. It has a peculiar perfection—something consecrated, historical, academic. This impression is delicious, and he watches the performance in a sort of tranquil ecstasy.

Never has he seen anything so smooth, and harmonious, so artistic and complete. He heard all his life of attention to detail, and now, for the first time, he sees something that deserves the name. He sees dramatic effort refined to a point with which the English stage is unacquainted. He sees that there are no limits to possible "finish," and that so trivial an act as taking a letter from a servant or placing one's hat on a chair may be made a suggestive and interesting incident. He sees these things and a great many more besides, but at first he does not analyze them; he gives himself up to sympathetic contemplation. He is in an ideal and exemplary world—a world that has managed to attain all the felicities that the world we live in misses. The people do the things that we should like to do; they are gifted as we should like to be; they have mastered the accomplishments that we have had to give up. The women are not all beautiful—decidedly not, indeed—but they are graceful, agreeable, sympathetic, ladylike; they have the best manners possible, and they are delightfully well dressed. They have charming musical voices, and they speak with irreproachable purity and sweetness; they walk with the most elegant grace, and when they sit it is a pleasure to see their attitudes. They go out and come in, they pass across the stage, they talk, and laugh, and cry, they deliver long tirades or remain statuesquely mute; they are tender or tragic, they are comic or conventional; and through it all you never observe an awkwardness, a roughness, an accident, a crude spot, a false note.

As for the men, they are not handsome either; it must be confessed, indeed, that at the present hour manly beauty is but scantily represented at the Théâtre Français. Bressant, I believe, used to be thought handsome; but Bressant has retired, and among the gentlemen of the troupe I can think of no one but M. Mounet-Sully who may be positively commended for his fine person. But M. Mounet-Sully is, from the scenic point of view, an Adonis of the first magnitude. To be handsome, however, is for an actor one of the last necessities; and these gentlemen are mostly handsome enough. They look perfectly what they are intended to look, and in cases where it is proposed that they shall seem handsome, they usually succeed. They are as well mannered and as well dressed as their fairer comrades, and their voices are no less agreeable and effective. They represent gentlemen, and they produce the illusion. In this endeavor they deserve even greater credit than the actresses, for in modern comedy, of which the repertory of the Théâtre Français is largely composed, they have nothing in the way of costume to help to carry it off. Half a dozen ugly men, in the periodic coat and trousers and stove-pipe hat, with blue chins and false moustaches, strutting before the footlights, and pretending to be interesting, romantic, pathetic, heroic, certainly play a perilous game. At every turn they suggest prosaic things, and their liabilities to awkwardness are increased a thousand fold. But the comedians of the Théâtre Français are never awkward, and when it is necessary they solve triumphantly the problem of being at once realistic to the eye and romantic to the imagination.

I am speaking always of one's first impression of them. There are spots on the sun, and you discover after a while that there are little irregularities at the Théâtre Français. But the acting is so incomparably better than any that you have seen, that criticism for a long time is content to lie dormant. I shall never forget how at first I was under the charm. I liked the very incommodities of the place; I am not sure that I did not find a certain mystic salubrity in the bad ventilation. The Théâtre Français, it is known, gives you a good deal for your money. The performance, which rarely ends before midnight, and sometimes transgresses it, frequently begins by seven o'clock. The first hour or two is occupied by secondary performers; but not for the world at this time would I have missed the first rising of the curtain. No dinner could be too hastily swallowed to enable me to see, for instance, Mme. Nathalie in Octave Feuillet's charming little comedy of "Le Village." Mme. Nathalie was a plain, stout old woman, who did the mothers, and aunts, and elderly wives; I use the past tense because she retired from the stage a year ago, leaving a most conspicuous vacancy. She was an admirable actress, and a perfect mistress of laughter and tears. In "Le Village" she played an old provincial bourgeoise whose husband takes it into his head, one winter night, to start on the tour of Europe with a roving bachelor friend, who has dropped down on him at supper-time, after the lapse of years, and has gossiped him into momentary discontent with his fireside existence. My pleasure was in Mme. Nathalie's figure when she came in dressed to go out to vespers across the place. The two foolish old cronies are over their wine, talking of the beauty of the women on the Ionian coast; you hear the church bell in the distance. It was the quiet felicity of the old lady's dress that used to charm me; the Comédie Française was in every fold of it. She wore a large black silk mantilla, of a peculiar cut, which looked as if she had just taken it tenderly out of some old wardrobe where it lay folded in lavender, and a large dark bonnet, adorned with handsome black silk loops and bows. Her big pale face had a softly frightened look, and in her hand she carried her neatly kept breviary. The extreme suggestiveness, and yet the taste and temperance of this costume, seemed to me inimitable; the bonnet alone, with its handsome, decent, virtuous bows, was worth coming to see. It expressed all the rest, and you saw the excellent, pious woman go pick her steps churchward among the puddles, while Jeannette, the cook, in a high white cap, marched before her in sabots, with a lantern.

Such matters are trifles, but they are representative trifles, and they are not the only ones that I remember. It used to please me, when I had squeezed into my stall—the stalls at the Français are extremely uncomfortable—to remember of how great a history the large, dim salle around me could boast: how many great things had happened there; how the air was thick with associations. Even if I had never seen Rachel, it was something of a consolation to think that those very footlights had illumined her finest moments, and that the echoes of her mighty voice were sleeping in that dingy dome. From this to musing upon the "traditions" of the place, of which I spoke just now, was of course but a step. How were they kept? by whom, and where? Who trims the undying lamp and guards the accumulated treasure? I never found out—by sitting in the stalls; and very soon I ceased to care to know. One may be very fond of the stage, and yet care little for the green room; just as one may be very fond of pictures and books, and yet be no frequenter of studios and authors' dens. They might pass on the torch as they would behind the scenes; so long as, during my time, they didn't let it drop, I made up my mind to be satisfied. And that one could depend upon their not letting it drop became a part of the customary comfort of Parisian life. It became certain that the "traditions" were not mere catchwords, but a most beneficent reality.

Going to the other Parisian theatres helps you to believe in them. Unless you are a voracious theatre-goer you give the others up; you find they don't pay; the Français does for you all that they do and so much more besides. There are two possible exceptions—the Gymnase and the Palais Royal, The Gymnase, since the death of Mlle. Desclée, has been under a heavy cloud; but occasionally, when a month's sunshine rests upon it, there is a savor of excellence in the performance. But you feel that you are still within the realm of accident; the delightful security of the Rue de Richelieu is wanting. The young lover is liable to be common, and the beautifully dressed heroine to have an unpleasant voice. The Palais Royal has always been in its way very perfect; but its way admits of great imperfection. The actresses are classically bad, though usually pretty, and the actors are much addicted to taking liberties. In broad comedy, nevertheless, two or three of the latter are not to be surpassed, and (counting out the women) there is usually something masterly in a Palais Royal performance. In its own line it has what is called style, and it therefore walks, at a distance, in the footsteps of the Français. The Odéon has never seemed to me in any degree a rival of the Théâtre Français, though it is a smaller copy of that establishment. It receives a subsidy from the State, and is obliged by its contract to play the classic repertory one night in the week. It is on these nights, listening to Molière or Marivaux, that you may best measure the superiority of the greater theatre. I have seen actors at the Odéon, in the classic repertory, imperfect in their texts; a monstrously insupposable case at the Comédie Française. The function of the Odéon is to operate as a pépinière or nursery for its elder—to try young talents, shape them, make them flexible, and then hand them over to the upper house. The more especial nursery of the Français, however, is the Conservatoire Dramatique, an institution dependent upon the State, through the Ministry of the Fine Arts, whose budget is charged with the remuneration of its professors. Pupils graduating from the Conservatoire with a prize have ipso facto the right to débuter at the Théâtre Français, which retains them or lets them go, according to its discretion. Most of the first subjects of the Français have done their two years' work at the Conservatoire, and M. Sarcey holds that an actor who has not had that fundamental training which is only to be acquired there, never obtains a complete mastery of his resources. Nevertheless some of the best actors of the day have owed nothing to the Conservatoire—Bressant, for instance, and Aimée Desclée, the latter of whom, indeed, never arrived at the Français. (Molière and Balzac were not of the Academy, and so Mlle. Desclée, the first actress after Rachel, died without acquiring the privilege which M. Sarcey says is the day-dream of all young theatrical women—that of printing on their visiting cards, after their name, de la Comédie Française.)

The Théâtre Français has, moreover, the right to do as Molière did—to claim its property wherever it finds it. It may stretch out its long arm and break the engagement of a promising actor at any of the other theatres; of course after a certain amount of notice given. So, last winter, it notified to the Gymnase its danger of appropriating Worms, the admirable jeune premier, who, returning from a long sojourn in Russia, and taking the town by surprise, had begun to retrieve the shrunken fortunes of that establishment.

On the whole, it may be said that the great talents find their way, sooner or later, to the Théâtre Français. This is of course not a rule that works unvaryingly, for there are a great many influences to interfere with it. Interest as well as merit—especially in the case of the actresses—weighs in the scale; and the ire that may exist in celestial minds has been known to manifest itself in the councils of the Comédie. Moreover, a brilliant actress may prefer to reign supreme at one of the smaller theatres; at the Français, inevitably, she shares her dominion. The honor is less, but the comfort is greater.

Nevertheless, at the Français, in a general way, there is in each case a tolerably obvious artistic reason for membership; and if you see a clever actor remain outside for years, you may be pretty sure that, though private reasons count, there are artistic reasons as well. The first half dozen times I saw Mlle. Fargueil, who for years ruled the roost, as the vulgar saying is, at the Vaudeville, I wondered that so consummate and accomplished an actress should not have a place on the first French stage. But I presently grew wiser, and perceived that, clever as Mlle. Fargueil is, she is not for the Rue de Richelieu, but for the Boulevards; her peculiar, intensely Parisian intonation would sound out of place in the Maison de Molière. (Of course if Mlle. Fargueil has ever received overtures from the Français, my sagacity is at fault—I am looking through a millstone. But I suspect she has not.) Frédéric Lemaître, who died last winter, and who was a very great actor, had been tried at the Français and found wanting—for those particular conditions. But it may probably be said that if Frédéric was wanting, the theatre was too, in this case. Frédéric's great force was his extravagance, his fantasticality; and the stage of the Rue de Richelieu was a trifle too academic. I have even wondered whether Desclée, if she had lived, would have trod that stage by right, and whether it would have seemed her proper element. The negative is not impossible. It is very possible that in that classic atmosphere her great charm—her intensely modern quality, her supersubtle realism—would have appeared an anomaly. I can imagine even that her strange, touching, nervous voice would not have seemed the voice of the house. At the Français you must know how to acquit yourself of a tirade; that has always been the touchstone of capacity. It would probably have proved Desclée's stumbling-block, though she could utter speeches of six words as no one else surely has ever done. It is true that Mlle. Croizette, and in a certain sense Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, are rather weak at their tirades; but then old theatre-goers will tell you that these young ladies, in spite of a hundred attractions, have no business at the Français.

In the course of time the susceptible foreigner passes from that superstitious state of attention which I just now sketched to that greater enlightenment which enables him to understand such a judgment as this of the old theatre-goers. It is borne in upon him that, as the good Homer sometimes nods, the Théâtre Français sometimes lapses from its high standard. He makes various reflections. He thinks that Mlle. Favart rants. He thinks M. Mounet-Sully, in spite of his delicious voice, insupportable. He thinks that M. Parodi's five-act tragedy, "Rome Vaincue," presented in the early part of the present winter, was better done certainly than it would have been done upon any English stage, but by no means so much better done than might have been expected. (Here, if I had space, I would open a long parenthesis, in which I should aspire to demonstrate that the incontestable superiority of average French acting to English is by no means so strongly marked in tragedy as in comedy—is indeed sometimes not strongly marked at all. The reason of this is in a great measure, I think, that we have had Shakespeare to exercise ourselves upon, and that an inferior dramatic instinct exercised upon Shakespeare may become more flexible than a superior one exercised upon Corneille and Racine. When it comes to ranting—ranting even in a modified and comparatively reasonable sense—we do, I suspect, quite as well as the French, if not rather better.) Mr. G. H. Lewes, in his entertaining little book upon "Actors and the Art of Acting," mentions M. Talbot, of the Français, as a surprisingly incompetent performer. My memory assents to his judgment at the same time that it proposes an amendment. This actor's special line is the buffeted, bemuddled, besotted old fathers, uncles, and guardians of classic comedy, and he plays them with his face much more than with his tongue. Nature has endowed him with a visage so admirably adapted, once for all, to his rôle, that he has only to sit in a chair, with his hands folded on his stomach, to look like a monument to bewildered senility. After that it doesn't matter what he says or how he says it.

The Comédie Française sometimes does weaker things than in keeping M. Talbot. Last autumn, for instance, it was really depressing to see Mlle. Dudley brought all the way from Brussels (and with not a little flourish either) to "create" the guilty vestal in "Rome Vaincue." As far as the interests of art are concerned, Mlle. Dudley had much better have remained in the Flemish capital, of whose language she is apparently a perfect mistress. It is hard, too, to forgive M. Perrin (M. Perrin is the present director of the Théâtre Français) for bringing out "L'Ami Fritz" of M. Erckmann-Chatrian. The two gentlemen who write under this name have a double claim to kindness. In the first place, they have produced some delightful little novels; every one knows and admires "Le Conscrit de 1813"; every one admires, indeed, the charming tale on which the play in question is founded. In the second place, they were, before the production of their piece, the objects of a scurrilous attack by the "Figaro" newspaper, which held the authors up to reprobation for having "insulted the army," and did its best to lay the train for a hostile manifestation on the first night. (It may be added that the good sense of the public outbalanced the impudence of the newspaper, and the play was simply advertised into success.) But neither the novels nor the persecutions of M. Erckmann-Chatrian avail to render "L'Ami Fritz," in its would-be dramatic form, worthy of the first French stage. It is played as well as possible, and upholstered even better; but it is, according to the vulgar phrase, too "thin" for the locality. Upholstery has never played such a part at the Théâtre Français as during the reign of M. Perrin, who came into power, if I mistake not, after the late war. He proved very early that he was a radical, and he has introduced a hundred novelties. His administration, however, has been brilliant, and in his hands the Théâtre Français has made money. This it had rarely done before, and this, in the conservative view, is quite beneath its dignity. To the conservative view I should humbly incline. An institution so closely protected by a rich and powerful State ought to be able to cultivate art for art.

The first of M. Sarcey's biographies, to which I have been too long in coming, is devoted to Regnier, a veteran actor, who left the stage four or five years since, and who now fills the office of oracle to his younger comrades. It is the indispensable thing, says M. Sarcey, for a young aspirant to be able to say that he has had lessons of M. Regnier, or that M. Regnier has advised him, or that he has talked such and such a point over with M. Regnier. (His comrades always speak of him as M. Regnier—never as simple Regnier.) I have had the fortune to see him but once; it was the first time I ever went to the Théâtre Français. He played Don Annibal in Emile Augier's romantic comedy of "L'Aventurière," and I have not forgotten the exquisite humor of the performance. The part is that of a sort of seventeenth century Captain Costigan, only the Miss Fotheringay in the case is the gentleman's sister, and not his daughter. This lady is moreover an ambitious and designing person, who leads her threadbare braggart of a brother quite by the nose. She has entrapped a worthy gentleman of Padua, of mature years, and he is on the eve of making her his wife, when his son, a clever young soldier, beguiles Don Annibal into supping with him, and makes him drink so deep that the prating adventurer at last lets the cat out of the bag, and confides to his companion that the fair Clorinda is not the virtuous gentlewoman she appears, but a poor strolling actress who has had a lover at every stage of her journey. The scene was played by Bressant and Regnier, and it has always remained in my mind as one of the most perfect things I have seen on the stage. The gradual action of the wine upon Don Annibal, the delicacy with which his deepening tipsiness was indicated, its intellectual rather than physical manifestation, and, in the midst of it, the fantastic conceit which made him think that he was winding his fellow drinker round his fingers—all this was exquisitely rendered. Drunkenness on the stage is usually both dreary and disgusting; and I can remember besides this but two really interesting pictures of intoxication (excepting always, indeed, the immortal tipsiness of Cassio in "Othello," which a clever actor can always make touching). One is the beautiful befuddlement of Rip Van Winkle, as Mr. Joseph Jefferson renders it, and the other (a memory of the Théâtre Français) the scene in the "Duc Job," in which Got succumbs to mild inebriation, and dozes in his chair just boosily enough for the young girl who loves him to make it out.

It is to this admirable Emile Got that M. Sarcey's second notice is devoted. Got is at the present hour unquestionably the first actor at the Théâtre Français, and I have personally no hesitation in accepting him as the first of living actors. His younger comrade, Coquelin, has, I think, as much talent and as much art; but the older man Got has the longer and fuller record, and may therefore be spoken of as the master par excellence. If I were obliged to rank the half dozen premiers sujets of the last few years at the Théâtre Français in their absolute order of talent (thank Heaven, I am not so obliged!), I think I should make up some such little list as this: Got, Coquelin, Mme. Plessy, Sarah Bernhardt, Mlle. Favart, Delaunay. I confess that I have no sooner written it than I feel as if I ought to amend it, and wonder whether it is not a great folly to put Delaunay after Mlle. Favart. But this is idle.

As for Got, he is a singularly interesting actor. I have often wondered whether the best definition of him would not be to say that he is really a philosophic actor. He is an immense humorist, and his comicality is sometimes colossal; but his most striking quality is the one on which M. Sarcey dwells—his sobriety and profundity, his underlying element of manliness and melancholy, the impression he gives you of having a general conception of human life and of seeing the relativity, as one may say, of the character he represents. Of all the comic actors I have seen he is the least trivial—at the same time that for richness of detail his comicality is unsurpassed. His repertory is very large and various, but it may be divided into two equal halves—the parts that belong to reality and the parts that belong to fantasy. There is of course a vast deal of fantasy in his realistic parts and a vast deal of reality in his fantastic ones, but the general division is just; and at times, indeed, the two faces of his talent seem to have little in common. The Duc Job, to which I just now alluded, is one of the things he does most perfectly. The part, which is that of a young man, is a serious and tender one. It is amazing that the actor who plays it should also be able to carry off triumphantly the frantic buffoonery of Maître Pathelin, or should represent the Sganarelle of the "Médecin Malgré Lui" with such an unctuous breadth of humor. The two characters, perhaps, which have given me the liveliest idea of Got's power and fertility are the Maître Pathelin and the M. Poirier, who figures in the title to the comedy which Emile Augier and Jules Sandeau wrote together. M. Poirier, the retired shop-keeper who marries his daughter to a marquis and makes acquaintance with the incommodities incidental to such a piece of luck, is perhaps the actor's most elaborate creation; it is difficult to see how the portrayal of a type and an individual can have a larger sweep and a more minute completeness. The bonhomme Poirier, in Got's hands, is really great; and half a dozen of the actor's modern parts that I could mention are hardly less brilliant. But when I think of him I instinctively think first of some rôle in which he wears the cap and gown of the days in which humorous invention may fairly take the bit in its teeth. This is what Got lets it do in Maître Pathelin, and he leads the spectators' exhilarated fancy a dance to which their aching sides on the morrow sufficiently testify.

The piece is a réchauffé of a mediæval farce, which has the credit of being the first play not a "mystery" or a miracle piece in the records of the French drama. The plot is of the baldest and most primitive. It sets forth how a cunning lawyer undertook to purchase a dozen ells of cloth for nothing. In the first scene we see him in the market-place, bargaining and haggling with the draper, and then marching off with the roll of cloth, with the understanding that the shop-man is to call at his house in the course of an hour for the money. In the next act we have Maître Pathelin at his fireside with his wife, to whom he relates his trick and its projected sequel, and who greets them with Homeric laughter. He gets into bed, and the innocent draper arrives. Then follows a scene of which the liveliest description must be ineffective. Pathelin pretends to be out of his head, to be overtaken by a mysterious malady which has made him delirious, not to know the draper from Adam, never to have heard of the dozen ells of cloth, and to be altogether an impossible person to collect a debt from. To carry out this character he indulges in a series of indescribable antics, out-Bedlams Bedlam, frolics over the room dressed out in the bed-clothes and chanting the wildest gibberish, bewilders the poor draper to within an inch of his own sanity, and finally puts him utterly to rout. The spectacle could only be portentously flat or heroically successful, and in Got's hands this latter was its fortune. His Sganarelle, in the "Médecin Malgré Lui," and half a dozen of his characters from Molière besides—such a part, too, as his Tibia, in Alfred de Musset's charming bit of romanticism, the "Caprices de Marianne"—have a certain generic resemblance with his treatment of the figure I have sketched. In all of these the comicality is of the exuberant and tremendous order, and yet, in spite of its richness and flexibility, it suggests little connection with high animal spirits. It seems a matter of invention, of reflection and irony. You cannot imagine Got representing a fool pure and simple—or at least a passive and unsuspecting fool. There must always be an element of shrewdness and even of contempt; he must be the man who knows and judges—or at least who pretends. It is a compliment, I take it, to an actor, to say that he prompts you to wonder about his private personality; and an observant spectator of M. Got is at liberty to guess that he is both obstinate and proud.

In Coquelin there is perhaps greater spontaneity, and there is a not inferior mastery of his art. He is a wonderfully brilliant, elastic actor. He is but thirty-five years old, and yet his record is most glorious. He too has his "actual" and his classical repertory, and here also it is hard to choose. As the young valet de comédie in Molière, Regnard, and Marivaux, he is incomparable. I shall never forget the really infernal brilliancy of his Mascarille in "L'Etourdi." His volubility, his rapidity, his impudence and gayety, his ringing, penetrating voice, and the shrill trumpet-note of his laughter, make him the ideal of the classic serving-man of the classic young lover—half rascal and half good fellow. Coquelin has lately had two or three immense successes in the comedies of the day. His Duc de Sept-Monts, in the famous "Etrangère" of Alexandre Dumas, last winter, was the capital creation of the piece; and in the revival, this winter, of Augier's "Paul Forestier," his Adolphe de Beaubourg, the young man about town, consciously tainted with commonness, and trying to shake off the incubus, seemed, while one watched it and listened to it, the last word of delicately humorous art. Of Coquelin's eminence in the old comedies M. Sarcey speaks with a certain picturesque force: "No one is better cut out to represent those bold and magnificent rascals of the old repertory, with their boisterous gayety, their brilliant fancy, and their superb extravagance, who give to their buffoonery je ne sais quoi d'épique. In these parts one may say of Coquelin that he is incomparable. I prefer him to Got in such cases, and even to Regnier, his master. I never saw Monrose, and cannot speak of him. But good judges have assured me that there was much that was factitious in the manner of this eminent comedian, and that his vivacity was a trifle mechanical. There is nothing whatever of this in Coquelin's manner. The eye, the nose, and the voice—the voice above all—are his most powerful means of action. He launches his tirades all in one breath, with full lungs, without bothering too much over the shading of details, in large masses, and he possesses himself only the more strongly of the public, which has a great sense of ensemble. The words that must be detached, the words that must decisively 'tell,' glitter in this delivery with the sonorous ring of a brand-new louis d'or. Crispin, Scapin, Figaro, Mascarille have never found a more valiant and joyous interpreter."

I should say that this was enough about the men at the Théâtre Français, if I did not remember that I have not spoken of Delaunay. But Delaunay has plenty of people to speak for him; he has, in especial, the more eloquent half of humanity—the ladies. I suppose that of all the actors of the Comédie Français he is the most universally appreciated and admired; he is the popular favorite. And he has certainly earned this distinction, for there was never a more amiable and sympathetic genius. He plays the young lovers of the past and the present, and he acquits himself of his difficult and delicate task with extraordinary grace and propriety. The danger I spoke of a while since—the danger, for the actor of a romantic and sentimental part, of being compromised by the coat and trousers, the hat and umbrella of the current year—are reduced by Delaunay to their minimum. He reconciles in a marvellous fashion the love-sick gallant of the ideal world with the "gentlemanly man" of to-day; and his passion is as far removed from rant as his propriety is from stiffness. He has been accused of late years of falling into a mannerism, and I think there is some truth in the charge. But the fault in Delaunay's situation is certainly venial. How can a man of fifty, to whom, as regards face and figure, Nature has been stingy, play an amorous swain of twenty without taking refuge in a mannerism? His mannerism is a legitimate device for diverting the spectator's attention from certain incongruities. Delaunay's juvenility, his ardor, his passion, his good taste and sense of fitness, have always an irresistible charm. As he has grown older he has increased his repertory by parts of greater weight and sobriety—he has played the husbands as well as the lovers. One of his most recent and brilliant "creations" of this kind is his Marquis de Presles in "Le Gendre de M. Poirier"—a piece of acting superb for its lightness and désinvolture. It cannot be better praised than by saying it was worthy of Got's inimitable rendering of the part opposed to it. But I think I shall remember Delaunay best in the picturesque and romantic comedies—as the Duc de Richelieu in "Mlle. De Belle-Isle"; as the joyous, gallant, exuberant young hero, his plumes and love knots fluttering in the breath of his gushing improvisation, of Corneille's "Menteur"; or, most of all, as the melodious swains of those charmingly poetic, faintly, naturally Shakespearian little comedies of Alfred de Musset.

To speak of Delaunay ought to bring us properly to Mlle. Favart, who for so many years invariably represented the object of his tender invocations. Mlle. Favart at the present time rather lacks what the French call "actuality." She has made this winter an attempt to recover something of that large measure of it which she once possessed; but I doubt whether it has been completely successful. M. Sarcey has not yet put forth his notice of her; and when he does so it will be interesting to see how he treats her. She is not one of his high admirations. She is a great talent which has passed into eclipse. I call her a great talent, although I remember the words in which M. Sarcey somewhere speaks of her: "Mlle. Favart, who, to happy natural gifts, soutenu par un travail acharné, owed a distinguished place," etc. Her talent is great, but the impression that she gives of a travail acharné and of an insatiable ambition is perhaps even greater. For many years she reigned supreme, and I believe she is accused of not having always reigned generously. However that may be, there came a day when Mlles. Croizette and Sarah Bernhardt passed to the front, and the elder actress receded, if not into the background, at least into what painters call the middle distance. The private history of these events has, I believe, been rich in heart-burnings; but it is only with the public history that we are concerned. Mlle. Favart has always seemed to be a powerful rather than an interesting actress; there is usually something mechanical and overdone in her manner. In some of her parts there is a kind of audible creaking of the machinery. If Delaunay is open to the reproach of having let a mannerism get the better of him, this accusation is much more fatally true of Mlle. Favart. On the other hand, she knows her trade as no one does—no one, at least, save Mme. Plessy. When she is bad she is extremely bad, and sometimes she is interruptedly bad for a whole evening. In the revival of Scribe's clever comedy of "Une Chaine," this winter (which, by the way, though the cast included both Got and Coquelin, was the nearest approach to mediocrity I have ever seen at the Théâtre Français), Mlle. Favart was, to my sense, startlingly bad. The part had originally been played by Mme. Plessy; and I remember how M. Sarcey in his feuilleton treated its actual representative. "Mlle. Favart does Louise. Who does not recall the exquisite delicacy and temperance with which Mme. Plessy rendered that difficult scene in the second act?" etc. And nothing more. When, however, Mlle. Favart is at her best, she is prodigiously strong. She rises to great occasions. I doubt whether such parts as the desperate heroine of the "Supplice d'une Femme," or as Julie in Octave Feuillet's lugubrious drama of that name, could be more effectively played than she plays them. She can carry a great weight without flinching; she has what the French call her "authority"; and in declamation she sometimes unrolls her fine voice, as it were, in long harmonious waves and cadences, the sustained power of which her younger rivals must often envy her.

I am drawing to the close of these rather desultory observations without having spoken of the four ladies commemorated by M. Sarcey in the publication which lies before me; and I do not know that I can justify my tardiness otherwise than by saying that writing and reading about artists of so extreme a personal brilliancy is poor work, and that the best the critic can do is to wish his reader may see them, from a quiet fauteuil, as speedily and as often as possible. Of Madeleine Brohan, indeed, there is little to say. She is a delightful person to listen to, and she is still delightful to look at in spite of that redundancy of contour which time has contributed to her charm. But she has never been ambitious, and her talent has had no particularly original quality. It is a long time since she created an important part; but in the old repertory her rich, dense voice, her charming smile, her mellow, tranquil gayety, always give extreme pleasure. To hear her sit and talk, simply, and laugh and play with her fan, along with Mme. Plessy, in Molière's "Critique de l'Ecole des Femmes," is an entertainment to be remembered. For Mme. Plessy I should have to mend my pen and begin a new chapter; and for Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt no less a ceremony would suffice. I saw Mme. Plessy for the first time in Emile Augier's "Aventurière," when, as I mentioned, I first saw Regnier. This is considered by many persons her best part, and she certainly carries it off with a high hand; but I like her better in characters which afford more scope to her talents for comedy. These characters are very numerous, for her activity and versatility have been extraordinary. Her comedy of course is "high"; it is of the highest conceivable kind, and she has often been accused of being too mincing and too artificial. I should never make this charge, for, to me, Mme. Plessy's minauderies, her grand airs and her arch-refinements, have never been anything but the odorous swayings and queenly tossings of some splendid garden flower. Never had an actress grander manners. When Mme. Plessy represents a duchess, you have to make no allowance. Her limitations are on the side of the pathetic. If she is brilliant, she is cold; and I cannot imagine her touching the source of tears. But she is in the highest degree accomplished; she gives an impression of intelligence and intellect which is produced by none of her companions—excepting always the extremely exceptional Sarah Bernhardt. Mme. Plessy's intellect has sometimes misled her—as, for instance, when it whispered to her, a few years since, that she could play Agrippine in Racine's "Britannicus," when that tragedy was presented for the débuts of Mounet-Sully. I was verdant enough to think her Agrippine very fine; but M. Sarcey reminds his readers of what he said of it the Monday after the first performance. "I will not say"—he quotes himself—"that Mme. Plessy is indifferent. With her intelligence, her natural gifts, her great situation, her immense authority over the public, one cannot be indifferent in anything. She is therefore not indifferently bad. She is bad to a point which cannot be expressed, and which would be afflicting for dramatic art if it were not that in this great shipwreck there rise to the surface a few floating fragments of the finest qualities that nature has ever bestowed upon an artist."

Mme. Plessy retired from the stage six months ago, and it may be said that the void produced by this event is irreparable. There is not only no prospect, but there is no hope of filling it up. The present conditions of artistic production are directly hostile to the formation of actresses as consummate and as complete as Mme. Plessy. One may not expect to see her like, any more than one may expect to see a new manufacture of old lace and old brocade. She carried off with her something that the younger generation of actresses will consistently lack—a certain largeness of style and robustness of art. (These qualities are in a modified degree those of Mlle. Favart.) But if the younger actresses have the success of Mlles. Croizette and Sarah Bernhardt, will they greatly care whether they are not "robust"? These young ladies are children of a later and eminently contemporary type, according to which an actress undertakes not to interest, but to fascinate. They are charming—"awfully" charming; strange, eccentric, and imaginative. It would be needless to speak specifically of Mlle. Croizette; for although she has very great attractions, I think she may (by the cold impartiality of science) be classified as a secondary, a less inspired, and (to use the great word of the day) a more "brutal" Sarah Bernhardt. (Mlle. Croizette's "brutality" is her great card.) As for Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt, she is simply, at present, in Paris, one of the great figures of the day. It is hard to imagine a more brilliant embodiment of feminine success. It is hard to imagine a young woman leading a more complete and multifold existence. The intellectual fermentation of a productive, creative (and most ambitious) artist, the splendors of a princess, the glories of a celebrity, and various other matters besides—these are a sufficiently interesting combination. But as an artist, as I have said, Mlle. Sarah Bernhardt would almost deserve a chapter for herself.

There was one walk of which Minola Grey was especially fond, and which she loved to enjoy alone. It led by a particular track through Regent's Park, avoiding for the most part the frequented paths, and bringing her at one time to the summit of a little mound or knoll, from which she could look across broad fields where sheep were grazing, and through clumps of trees and over hedges, and from which, by a happy peculiarity, all sight of the beaten and dusty avenues of the park was shut out. The view from this little eminence was perhaps most beautiful on a moist and misty day. There the soft, loving, artistic breath of the rain-charged clouds breathed tenderly on the landscape, and effaced any of the harsher, or meaner, or in any way more prosaic details. There the gazer only saw a noble expanse of delicious green grass and darker hedgerows, and trees of dun and gray, and softly-mottled moss-grown trunks, and here and there a bed of flowers, and all under a silver-gray atmosphere that almost seemed to dissolve while the eye rested on it. When Minola had looked long enough on the scene opening below the mound, she then usually pursued her course by devious ways until she reached one of the bridges of the canal, and there she made another halting place. The scene from the canal-bridge, unlike that from the mound, looked best on a bright, breezy day, of quick changing lights and shadows. There the brown water of the canal sparkled and gladdened in the sun, and Minola, leaning over the little bridge, and fixing her eyes on the water as it rippled past the nearer bank, might enjoy, for the hour, the full sensation of one who floats in a boat along a stream, and watches the trees and grasses of the shore. The place was quiet enough, and rich enough in trees and shrubs, and little reeds quivering out of the water, to seem, at least in Minola's pleased eyes, like a spot on the bank of the canal far in the country, while yet there was to her the peculiar and keen delight of knowing herself in London. Sometimes, too, a canal boat came gliding along, steered by a stalwart and sunburnt woman in a great straw bonnet, and the boat and the woman brought wild and delicious ideas of far-off country places, with woods and gipsies, and fresh, half savage, half poetic life. Minola extracted beautiful pictures and much poetry and romance from that little bridge over the discolored canal, creeping through the heart of London.

The population of London—even its idlers—usually move along in tracks and grooves. Where some go, others go; where few go, at last none go. It is wonderful what hours of almost absolute solitude Minola was able to enjoy in the midst of Regent's Park. Voices, indeed, constantly reached her: the cries and laughter of children, the shoutings of cricketers, the dulled clamor of the metropolis itself. These reached her as did the bleating of sheep and the tinkle of their bells, the barking of dogs, and occasionally the fierce, hoarse, thrilling growl or roar of some disturbed or impatient animal in the Zoölogical Gardens near at hand. But many and many a time Minola lounged for half an hour on her little knoll or on her chosen bridge, without seeing more of man or woman than of the lions in their cages on the other side of the enclosure. There was a particular hour of the day, too, when the park in general was especially deserted, and it appears almost needless to say that this was the time selected usually by Miss Grey for her rambles. It was sometimes a curious, half sensuous pleasure for her thus alone, amid the murmur of the trees, to fancy herself, for the moment, back again within sight of the mausoleum at Keeton, where she had spent so many weary and solitary hours, and then, awaking, to rejoice anew in her freedom and in London.

It was a fortunate and kindly destiny which assigned to our heroine a poetess for a companion. Much as she loved occasional solitude, Minola loved still better the spirit of fidelity to the obligations of true camaraderie, and if Miss Blanchet had had any manner of work to do, from the mending of a stocking to the teaching of a school, in which Minola could possibly have assisted her, Minola would never have thought of leaving her to do the work alone. Or even if Miss Blanchet had work to do in which Minola could not have helped her, but to which her presence would be any manner of encouragement, Minola would have stayed with her, and never dreamed of play while her companion had to be at work. But we may safely appeal to all the poets of all time to say whether anybody ever desired companionship while engaged in the composition of poetry. Sappho herself could have well dispensed with the society of Phaon at such a moment. It is true that Corinne threw off some of her grandest effusions in full face of an admiring crowd, and recited them not only with Lord Nelvil, but at him. Corinne, however, was of the improvisatrice class, to which Mary Blanchet did not profess to belong; and we own, moreover, to a constant suspicion that Corinne must have sat up late for many previous nights getting her improvisations by heart. At all events Miss Blanchet was not Corinne, and required seclusion, and much thought, and comparison of rhymes, and even looking out in dictionaries, in order to the composition of her poems. At the present time Minola was well aware that her friend had a new collection of poems on hand, and that the poems would be churned off with less difficulty if the author were occasionally left to herself for an hour or two. Therefore Minola was free to go into Regent's Park, with untroubled conscience and light heart. The woman who was not a poet revelled in the rustling branches and the sight of the soft grass, and was filled with glad visions and dreams by the flowing even of a poor, clouded, slow canal stream, and was rapt into the ideal at the sight of a reed growing in the water and shaken by the wind. The poetess remained at home in a dull room, and hammered out rhymes with the help of a dictionary.

But, to do Minola justice, she was not wholly given up, even in these free and lonely hours, to the sweet, innocent sensuousness that fills certain beings when amid trees and the sounds of flowing water. She had many scruples about the possible selfishness of her life, and wondered whether it was not wrong thus to live, and whether it was not through some fault of hers that no opportunity presented itself to her of doing any good for man or woman. She asked herself sometimes whether she had not been impatient and wilful in her dealings with the people at home. She still, when in a self-questioning and penitential mood, thought and spoke of Keeton as "home," and whether she had not done wrong in leaving the material enclosure of any place bearing even by tradition the name of home, for a life of freedom which some censors might have thought unwomanly. There are metaphysicians who hold that, although man of his nature has no intuitive knowledge, yet that the accumulated experience of generations supplies gradually for men, as they are born, a something which is like intuition to start with, and which they could not now start clear of. So the experience or the traditions of generations form a sort of factitious and accumulated conscience for women independent of any abstract or eternal laws, and amounting in strength to something like intuition. Over this shadow they cannot leap. Minola, filled as she was with a peculiarly independent spirit, and driven by circumstances to consider its indulgence a right and even a duty, could not keep from the occasional torment of a doubt whether there must not be something wrong in the conduct of any woman who, under any circumstances, leaves voluntarily, and while she is yet under age, the home of her childhood, and takes up her abode among strangers, without guardians, mistress of herself, and in lodgings.

Perhaps some such ideas were in Minola's mind when she left Mary Blanchet, a few mornings after the meetings described in the last chapter, and set out for a pleasant lonely walk in Regent's Park. Perhaps it was the very pleasure of the walk, and the loneliness, now missed for some days, that made her dread being selfish, and sent her down into a drooping and penitent reaction. "This will never do," she kept thinking. "I ought to try to do something for somebody. I am growing to think only of myself—and I broke away from Keeton because I was getting morbid in thinking about myself."

It was in this remorseful condition of mind that she approached her favorite mound, longing for an hour of quiet delight there, and half ashamed of her longing. When she had nearly reached its height, she discerned that the fates had seemingly resolved to punish her for her love of solitariness, by decreeing that her chosen retreat should that day be occupied. There was a seat on which she usually sat, and now a man was there. That was bad enough, but she could in an ordinary case have passed on, and sought some other place. Now, however, she saw that that was denied to her; for the intruder was Mr. Victor Heron, and at the sound of her footstep he looked round, recognized her, and was already coming toward her, with hat uplifted and courteous bow.

The very rapid moment of time between Minola's first seeing Mr. Heron and his recognizing her had enabled her quick eyes to perceive that when he thought himself alone he was anything but the genial and joyous personage he appeared in company. At first Miss Grey's attention was withdrawn from her own disappointment by the air of melancholy and even of utter despondency about the face and figure of the seated man. He sat leaning forward, his chin supported by one hand, his eyes fixed moodily on the ground. He seemed to have no manner of concern with air, or sky, or scene, and his dark-complexioned face gave the impression of one terribly at odds with fortune. Minola felt almost irresistibly drawn toward one who seemed unhappy. Her harmless misanthropy went out at a breath in the presence of any man who appeared to suffer.

But the change which came over Mr. Heron when he saw her can only be likened to that which would be made by the sudden illumination of a house that a second before was all dark, and seemingly tenantless. He came to meet her with sparkling eyes and delighted expression. Mr. Heron, it should perhaps be explained, considered himself so much older than Miss Grey, so entirely an experienced, mature, not to say outworn man, that he did not think of waiting to see whether Miss Grey was inclined to encourage a renewal of the acquaintance. He considered it his duty to be polite and friendly to the pretty girl he had met at Money's, and whom he assumed to be poor, and wanting in friends.

"How fortunate I am to meet you here to-day!" he said. "You remember me, I hope, Miss Grey? I haven't called you Miss Money this time. Come now—don't say you have forgotten me."

"I see, you go in for being downright, and saying only what you mean. I am very glad. So do I, and I am very much delighted to meet you here, Miss Grey. Come, you won't say as much for me?"

"I cannot say that I was glad to see anybody just here; this place is always deserted, except by me."

"You come here often, and you are sorry to have your retreat broken in upon? Don't hesitate to say so, Miss Grey, and I will promise not to come into this part of the park—or into any part of the park for that matter—any more. Why should I disturb you?"

He spoke with such earnestness and such evident sincerity that Minola began to feel ashamed of her previous ungraciousness.

"That would be rather hard upon you, and a little arrogant on my part," she said smiling. "The park isn't mine, and, if it were, I am sure I could not be selfish enough to wish to shut you out from any part of it. But I am in the habit of being a good deal alone; and I fear it makes me a little rude and selfish sometimes. I was thinking of that just as I came up here, and saw you."

"There is something sympathetic about you, Miss Grey, for all your coldness and loneliness."

"Surely," said Miss Grey, "a woman without some feeling of sympathy would be hardly fit to live."

"You think so?" he asked quite earnestly and gravely. "So do I—so do I indeed. Men have little time to sympathize with men—they are all too busy with their own affairs. What should we do but for the sympathy of women? Now tell me, why do you smile at that? I saw that you were trying not to laugh."

"I could not help smiling a little, it was so thoroughly masculine a sentiment."

"Was it? How is that now?" His direct way of propounding his questions rather amused and did not displease her. It was like the way of a rational man talking with another rational being—a style of conversation which has much attraction for some women.

"Well, because it looked upon women so honestly as creatures only formed to make men comfortable, by coming up and sympathizing with them when they are in a humor for sympathy, and then retiring out of the way into their corner again."

"I can assure you, Miss Grey, that never has been my idea—nothing of the kind, indeed. To tell the truth, I have not known much about the sympathy of women and all that. I have lived awfully out of the world, and I never had any sisters, and I hardly remember my mother. I know women chiefly in poems and romances, and I believe I generally adopt the goddess theory. In honest truth, most women do seem to me a sort of goddesses."

"You will not be long in England without unlearning that theory," Miss Grey said. "Our writers seem to have hardly any subject now but the faults and follies of women. One might sometimes think that woman was a newly-discovered creature that the world could never be done wondering at."

"Yes, yes; I read a good deal of that sort of thing out in the colonies. But I have retained the goddess theory, so far at least. Mrs. Money seems to me a sort of divinity. Miss Money is a born saint; she ought to go about with a gilt plate round her head. Miss Lucy Money seems like a little angel of light. Are you smiling again? I do assure you these are my real feelings."

"I was not smiling at the idea, but only at the difference between it and the favorite ideas of most people at present, even of women about women."

"May I walk a little with you," Mr. Heron said, "or will you sit and rest here, if you are tired, and we will talk? Don't stand on formality and send me away, although I will go if you like, and not feel in the least offended. But if we might talk for a little, it would give me great pleasure. You said just now that you did not wish to be selfish. It will be very unselfish and very kind if you will let me talk to you a little. I felt very wretched when you came up—quite in a suicidal frame of mind."

"In one sense I do mean it—that is, it is quite true that I should not have thrown myself into the water or blown my brains out; that sort of thing seems to me like abandoning one's post without orders from headquarters. But I felt in the condition of mind when one can quite understand how such things are done, and would be glad if he were free to follow the example. For me that is a great change in itself," the young man added with some bitterness.

"What can I do for him?" Miss Grey asked herself mentally. "Nothing but to show him the view from the canal bridge. There is nothing else in my power."

"There is a very pretty view a short distance from this," she said; "a view from a bridge, and I am particularly fond of looking from bridges. Should you like to walk there?"

"I should like to walk anywhere with you," Victor Heron said, with a look of genuine gratefulness, which had not the faintest breath of compliment in it, and could only be accepted as frank truth.

Perhaps, if Miss Grey had been a town-bred girl, she might have hesitated about setting out for a companionable walk in the park with a young man who was almost a stranger to her. But, as it was, she appeared to herself to have all the right of free action belonging to one in a place of which the public opinion can in no wise touch her. She acted in London as freely as one speaks with a friend in a foreign hotel room, where he knows that the company around are unable to understand what he is saying. In this particular instance, however, Minola hardly thought about the matter at all. There was something in Heron's open and emotional way which made people almost at the first meeting cease to regard him as a stranger. Perhaps, if Minola had thought over the matter, she might have cited in vindication of her course the valuable authority of Major Pendennis, who, when asked whether Laura might properly take walks in the Temple Gardens with Warrington, eagerly said, "Yes, yes, begad, of course, you go out with him. It's like the country, you know; everybody goes out with everybody in the Gardens; and there are beadles, you know, and that sort of thing. Everybody walks in the Temple Gardens." Regent's Park, one would think, ought to come under the same laws. There are beadles there, too, or guardian functionaries of some sort, although it may be owned that in their walk to and from the canal bridge Heron and Minola encountered none of them.

It is doubtful whether Heron at least would have noticed such a personage even had they come in their way, for he talked nearly all the time, except when he paused for an answer to some direct question, and he seldom took his eyes from Minola's face. He was not staring at her, or broadly admiring her; nor, indeed, was there anything in his manner to make it certain that he was admiring her at all, as man conventionally is understood to admire woman. But he had evidently put Miss Grey into the place of a sympathetic and trusted friend, and he talked to her accordingly. She was amused and interested, and she now and then kept making little disparaging criticisms to herself, in order to sustain her place as the cool depreciator of man. But she was very happy for all that.

One characteristic peculiarity of this sudden and singular acquaintanceship ought to be mentioned. When people still read "Gil Blas" they would have remembered at once how the waiting-woman received delightedly the advances of Gil Blas, believing him to be a gentleman of fortune, and how Gil Blas paid great court to the waiting-woman, believing her to be a lady of rank. The pair of friends in Regent's Park were drawn together by exactly opposite impulses: each believed the other poor and unfriended. Minola was under the impression that she was giving her sympathy to a ruined and unhappy young man, who had failed in life almost at the very beginning, and was now friendless in stony-hearted London. Victor Heron was convinced that his companion was a poor orphan girl, who had been sent down by misfortune from a position of comfort, or even wealth, to earn her bread by some sort of intellectual labor, while she lived in a small back room in a depressed and mournful quarter of London.

He told her the story of his grievance; it may be that he even told her some parts of it more than once. It was a strange sensation to her, as she walked on the soft green turf, in the silver gray atmosphere, to hear this young man, who seemed to have lived so bold and strange a life, appealing to her for an opinion as to the course he ought to pursue to have his cause set right. The St. Xavier's Settlements do not geographically count for much, and politically they count for still less. But when Mr. Heron told of his having been administrator and commandant there; of his having made treaties with neighboring kings (she knew they were only black kings); of his having tried to put down slavery, and to maintain what he persisted in believing to be the true honor of England; of war made on him, and war made by him in return—while she listened to all this, it is no wonder if our romantic girl from Duke's Keeton sometimes thought she was conversing with one of the heroes and master-spirits of the time. He made the whole story very clear to her, and she thoroughly understood it, although her imagination and her senses were sometimes disturbed by the tropic glare which seemed to come over the places and events he described. At last they actually came to be standing on the canal bridge, and neither looked at the view they had come to see.

"Now what do you advise?" Heron said, after having several times impressed some particular point on her. "I attach great importance to a woman's advice. You have instincts, and all that, which we haven't; at least so everybody says. Would you let this thing drop altogether, and try some other career, or would you fight it out?"

"I would fight it out," Minola said, looking up to him with sparkling eyes, "and I would never let it drop. I would make them do me justice."

"Just what I think; just what I came to England resolved to do. I hate the idea of giving in; but people here discourage me. Money discourages me. He says the Government will never do anything unless I make myself troublesome."

"I have made myself troublesome in one sense," he said, with a vexed kind of laugh, "by haunting ante-chambers, and trying to force people to see me who don't want to see me. But I can't do any more of that kind of work; I am sick of it. I am ashamed of having tried it at all."

"Then," Heron said, with a little embarrassment, "a man—a very kind and well-meaning fellow, an old friend of my father's—offered to introduce me to Lady Chertsey—a very clever woman, a queen of society, I am told, who gets all the world (of politics, I mean) into her drawing-room, and delights in being a sort of power, and all that. She could push a fellow, they say, wonderfully if she took any interest in him. But I couldn't do that, you know."

"Well, I shouldn't care to be introduced to a lady's drawing-room with the secret purpose of trying to get her to do me a service. There seems something mean in that. Besides, I have a cause (at least, I think I have) which is too good to be served in that kind of way. If I can't get a hearing and justice from the Government of England and the people of England for the sake of right and for the claims I have, I will never try to get it through. Oh, well, perhaps, I ought not to say what I was going to say."

"I don't know really. Tell me what it is, and then I'll tell you whether you ought to say it."

He laughed. "Well, I was only going to say that I don't care to have my cause served by petticoat influence."

"I think you are quite right. If I were a man, I should think petticoat influence in such a matter contemptible. But why should you not like to say so?"

"Only because I was afraid you might think I meant to speak contemptuously of the influence and the advice of women. I don't mean anything of the kind. I have the highest opinion of the advice of women and their influence, as I have told you already; but I couldn't endure the idea of having a lady, who doesn't know or care anything about me and my claims, asked by somebody to say a word to some great man or some great man's wife, in order that I might get a hearing. I am sure you understand what I mean, Miss Grey."

"Oh, yes, I never should have misunderstood it; and I know that you are quite right. It would be a downright degradation."

"So I felt. Anyhow, I could not do it. Then there remains the making myself troublesome, as Money advises——"

"Getting my case brought on again and again in the House of Commons, and having debates about it, and making the whole thing public, and so forcing the Government either to do me justice or to satisfy the country that justice has already been done," he said bitterly.

"That would seem to me a right thing to do," Miss Grey said; "but I know so little that I ought not to offer a word of advice."

"Oh, yes, I should trust to your feelings and instincts in such a case. Well, I don't like, somehow, being in the hands of politicians and party men, who might use me and my cause only as a means of annoying the Government—not really from any sense of right and justice. I don't know if I make myself quite understood; it is hard to expect a lady, especially a young lady, to understand these things."

"I think I can quite understand all that. We are not so stupid as you seem to suppose, Mr. Heron."

"Oh, yes!" She could see that he was looking disappointed at her interruption and her seeming levity, which was indeed only the result of a momentary impulse to keep up to herself her character as a scorner of men. "I think I understand quite clearly that you fear to be made the mere instrument of politicians; and I think you are quite right. I did not think of that at first, but, now that you explain it, I am sure that you are right."

He nodded approvingly. "Then comes the question," he said, "what is to be done?"

Leaning against the bridge, he thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood looking into her face, as if he were really waiting for her to solve the problem for him.

"That is entirely beyond me," she said. "I know nothing; I could not even guess at what ought to be done."

Minola's mind at once formed and framed a picture of a stately assembly, like a Roman Senate, or like the group of King Agrippa, Festus, Bernice, and the rest, and Mr. Heron pleading his cause like Cicero or Paul. The thing seemed hardly congruous. It did not seem to her to fall in with modern conditions at all. Her face became blank; she did not well know what to answer.

"Are people allowed to do such things now, in England?" she asked—"to plead causes before Parliament?"

An odd idea came up in her mind, that perhaps by the time this strange performance came to be enacted, Mr. Augustus Sheppard might be in Parliament, and Mr. Heron's enthusiastic eloquence would have to be addressed to him. She did not like the idea.

"You don't understand," Heron said. "You really don't this time. What I mean is to get into Parliament—be elected for some place, and then stand up and make my own fight for myself."

"Oh, yes, of course! How stupid I am not to see at once! That is a splendid idea; the very thing I should like to do if I were a man and in your place."

"Indeed I do. But then——" And she hesitated, for she feared that she had been only encouraging him to a wild dream. "Does it not cost a great deal of money to get into Parliament?"

"No; I think not; not always at least. I should look out for an opportunity. I have money enough—for me. I'm not a rich man, Miss Grey, but my father left me well enough off, as far as that goes; and you know that in a place like St. Xavier's one couldn't spend any money. There was no way of getting rid of it. No, my troubles are none of them money troubles. I only want to vindicate my past career, and so to have a career for the future. I ought to be doing something. I feel in an unhealthy state of mind while all this is pressing on me. You understand?"

"I can understand it," Miss Grey said, turning to leave the bridge, and bestowing one glance at the yellow, slow-moving water, and the reeds and the bushes, of which she and her companion had not spoken a word. "It is not good to have to think of oneself. But you are bound to vindicate yourself; that I am sure is your duty. Then you can think of other things—of the public and the country."

"He is rich," she thought, "and he is clever and earnest, in spite of his egotism. Of course he will have a career, and be successful. I thought that he was poor and broken down, and that I was doing him a kindness by showing sympathy with him."

They went away together, and Heron, delighted with her encouragement and her intelligence, unfolded splendid plans of what he was to do. But Minola somehow entered less cordially into them than she had done before, and Mr. Heron at last became ashamed of talking so much about himself.

"I hope we shall meet again," he said as she stopped significantly at one of the gates leading out of the park, to intimate that now their roads were separating. "I wish you would allow me to call and see you. I do hope you won't think me odd, or that I am presuming on your kindness. I am a semi-barbarian, you know—have been so long out of civilization—and I haven't any idea of the ways of the polite world."

She bade him good day, and nodded with a friendly smile, but made no answer to the repeated expression of his hope, and she hastened away.

Heron could not endure walking alone just then. He hailed a hansom and disappeared.

"How vain men are!" Minola thought as she went her way. "How egotistical they all are!" Of course she assumed herself to have obtained a complete knowledge of all the characters of men. "How egotistic he is! Of course he tells his whole story to every woman he meets. Lucy Money no doubt has it by heart."

She did not remember for the moment that her own favorite hero was likewise somewhat egotistical and effusive, and that he was very apt to pour out the story of his wrongs into the ear of any sympathetic woman. But she was disappointed with herself and her friend just now, and was not in a mood to make perfectly reasonable comparisons.

Mrs. Money had one great object in life. At least, if it was not an object defined and set out before her, it was an instinct: it was to make people happy. She could not rest without trying to make people happy. The motherly instinct, which in other women is satisfied by rushing at babies wherever they are to be seen, and ministering to them, and fondling them, and talking pigeon-English to them, exuberated in her so far as to set her trying to do the mother's part for all men and women who came within her range, even when their years far exceeded hers. There was one great advantage to herself personally in this: it kept her content in what had come to be her own sphere. One cannot go meddling in the affairs of duchesses and countesses, and Ministers of State, with whatever kindly desire of setting everything to rights and making them all happy. People of that class give themselves such haughty airs that they would rather remain unhappy in their own way than obtain felicity at the hand of some person of inferior station. So Mrs. Money believed; and perhaps one secret cause of her dislike to the aristocracy (along with the avowed conviction that the aristocratic system had somehow misprized and interfered with her husband) was the feeling that if she were among them, they would not allow her to do anything for them. She therefore maintained a circle of which she herself was the queen, and patroness, and Lady Bountiful. She busied herself about everybody's affairs, and was kind to everybody, without any feeling of delight in the mere work of patronizing, but out of a sheer pleasure in trying to make people happy. Naturally she made mistakes, and the general system of her social circle worked so as to occasion a continual change, a passing away of old friends and coming in of new. As young men rose in the world and became independent, as girls got married and came to consider themselves supreme in their own sphere, they tended to move away from Mrs. Money's influence. Even the grateful and the generous could not always avoid this. For beginners in any path of life she was the specially appointed helper and friend; and next to these she might be called the patron saint of failures. In her circle were young poets, painters, lawyers, novelists, preachers, ambitious men looking out for seats in Parliament, or beginners in Parliament; also there were the gray old poets whom no one read; the painters who could not get their pictures exhibited or bought; the men who were in Parliament ten or twenty years ago, and got out and never could get in again; and the inventors who could not impress any government or capitalist with a sense of the value of their discoveries. No front-rank, successful person of any kind was usually to be found in Mrs. Money's rooms. Her guests were the youths who were putting their armor on for the battle, and the worn-out campaigners who had put it off defeated.

Naturally, when Minola Grey came in Mrs. Money's way, the sympathy and interest of the kindly lady were quickened to their keenest. This beautiful, motherless, fatherless, proud, lonely girl—not so old as her own Theresa, not older than her own Lucy—living by herself, or almost by herself, in gloomy lodgings in the heart of London—how could she fail to be an object of Mrs. Money's deep concern? Of course Mrs. Money must look into all her affairs, and find out whether she was poor; and in what sort of way she was living; and whether the people with whom she lodged were kind to her.

Mary Blanchet's pride of heart can hardly be described when an open carriage, with a pair of splendid grays, stopped at the door of the house in the no-thoroughfare street, and a footman got down and knocked; and it finally appeared that Mrs. Money, Miss Money, and Miss Lucy Money had called to see Miss Grey. Miss Grey, as it happened, was not at home, although the servant at first supposed that she was; and thus the three ladies were shown into Minola's sitting-room, and there almost instantly captured by Miss Blanchet. We say "almost" because there was an interval long enough for Lucy to dart about the room from point to point, taking up a book here, a piece of music there, an engraving, a photograph, or a flower, and pronouncing everything delightful. The room was old-fashioned, spacious, and solid, very unlike the tiny apartments of the ordinary West End lodging; and, what with the flowers and the books, it really looked rather an attractive place to enthusiastic eyes. Miss Money kept her eyes on the ground for the most part, and professed to take little notice of the ordinary adornments of rooms; for Miss Money was a saint, and was furthermore engaged to a man not far from her father's years, who, having made a great deal of money at the Parliamentary bar, was now thinking of entering the Church, and had already set about the building of a temple of mediæval style, in the progress of which Miss Money naturally was deeply interested.

Miss Blanchet was in a flutter of excitement as she entered the sitting-room. As she was crossing its threshold she was considering whether she ought to present a copy of her poems to each of the three ladies or only to Mrs. Money; or whether she ought to tender the gift now or send it on by the post. The solemn eyes and imposing presence of Mrs. Money were almost alarming, and the trailing dresses and feathers of all the ladies sent a thrill of admiration and homage into the heart of the poetess—everything was so evidently put on regardless of expense. Little Mary had always been so poor and so stinted in the matter of wardrobe that she could not help admiring these splendidly dressed women. Mary, however, luckily remembered what was due to the dignity of poetic genius, and did not allow her homage to show itself too much in the form of trepidation. She instantly put on her best company manners, and spoke in the sweetly measured and genteel tone which she used to employ at Keeton, when she had occasion to interchange a word with the judges, or the sheriffs, or some eminent counsel.

"Minola will be home in a few moments—a very few," Miss Blanchet said. "Indeed, I expect her every minute. I know she would be greatly disappointed if she did not see you."

"I am Minola's friend," Mary explained with placid dignity. "I may introduce myself. My brother, I know, has already the honor of your acquaintance. I am Miss Blanchet."

"Mr. Herbert Blanchet's sister?" Mrs. Money said in melancholy tone, but with delighted eyes. "This is indeed an unexpected and a very great pleasure."

"Why, you don't mean to say you are Herbert Blanchet's sister?" Lucy exclaimed, seizing both the hands of the poetess. "He's the most delightful creature, and a true poet. Oh, yes, a man of genius!"

"Herbert Blanchet is my brother. He is much younger than I; I need hardly say that. I used to take care of him years ago, almost as if I were his mother. We were a long time separated; he has been so much abroad."

The faithful Mary would not for all the world have suggested that their long separation was due to any indifference on the part of her brother. Indeed, at the moment she was not thinking of anything of the kind, only of his genius, and his beauty, and his noble heart.

"He never told me he had a sister," Mrs. Money said, "or I should have been delighted to call on you long ago, Miss Blanchet. It is your brother's fault, not mine. I shall tell him so."

"He did not know that I was coming to London," Mary was quick to explain. "He thought I was still living in Keeton. I only came to London with Minola."

"How delightful!" Lucy exclaimed, desisting from her occupation of opening books and turning over music; "for you can tell us all about Nola and her love story."

"Her love story!" Miss Blanchet murmured tremulously, and wondering who had betrayed Minola's secret.

"Oh, yes," said Lucy decisively. "I know there's some love story—something romantic and delightful. Do tell us, Miss Blanchet."

"It's not exactly a love story," Miss Blanchet said with some hesitation, not well knowing what she ought to reveal and what to keep back. "At least it's no love affair on Minola's part. She never was in love—never. She detests all love-making—at least she thinks so," the poetess said with a gentle sigh. "But there was a gentleman who was very much in love with her."

Miss Blanchet then told the story of Mr. Augustus Sheppard, and how he was rich and handsome—at least rather handsome, she said—and how he wanted to marry Minola; and her people very much wished that she would have him, and she would not; and how at last she hastened her flight to London to get rid of him. All this was full of delightful interest to Lucy, and still further quickened the kindly sympathy of Mrs. Money. Then Mary Blanchet went into a long story about the death of Minola's mother and the second marriage of Minola's father, and then the father's death and the stepmother's second marriage, and the discomfort of the home which fate had thus provided for Minola. She expatiated upon the happiness of the sheltered life Minola had had while her mother was living, and the change that came upon her afterward, until the only doubt Mrs. Money had ever entertained about Minola—a doubt as to the perfect propriety and judgment of her coming to live almost alone in London—vanished altogether, and she regarded our heroine as a girl who had been driven from her home instead of having fled from it.

Mrs. Money delicately and cautiously approached the subject of Minola's means of subsistence. On this point no one could enlighten her better than Miss Blanchet, who knew to the sixpence the income and expenditure of her friend. Well, Minola was not badly off for a girl, Mrs. Money thought. A girl could live nicely and quietly, like a lady, but very quietly, on that. Besides, some rich man would be sure to fall in love with her.

"But she ought to have a great deal of money," the poetess eagerly explained, very proud of her leader's losses. "Her father was a rich man, quite a rich man, and he had quarrelled with her brother, and she ought to have all the money, only for that second marriage." Indeed, Miss Blanchet added the expression of her own profound conviction that there must have been some queer work—some concealment or something—about Mr. Grey's property, seeing that so little of it came to Minola.

"I'll get Mr. Money to look into all that," Mrs. Money said decisively. "He understands all about these things, and nothing could be hidden from him."

Miss Blanchet modestly intimated that she had confided her suspicions to her brother, and begged him to try and find out something.

"Oh, he never could understand anything about it!" Lucy said. "Poets never know about these things. It's just in papa's line. He'll find out. They can't baffle him. I know they have been cheating Nola—I know they have! I know there's a will hidden away somewhere, making her the rightful heir or whatever it is."

"Mr. Augustus Sheppard?" Mary asked, mentioning his name for the first time in the conversation.

"Because I heard him asking Nola about Mr. Augustus Sheppard the other day, mamma, in our drawing-room."

"Oh, no, I suppose not; but he knows him, and he'll tell us all about him. Why wouldn't Nola have him, Miss Blanchet?"

"He is rather a formal sort of person, and heavy, and not the least in the world poetic or romantic; and Minola does not like him at all. She doesn't think his feelings are very deep; but there I am sure she is wrong," the poetess added emphatically. "She has never had occasion to make a study of human feelings as others have."

"You think he has deep feelings?" Mrs. Money asked, turning the full light of her melancholy eyes upon Mary, and with her whole soul already in the question.

"Oh, yes; I know he has. I know that he will persevere, and will try to make Minola marry him still. He is a man I should be afraid of if he were disappointed. I should indeed."

"Mamma, don't you think we had better have Nola to stay with us for a while?" Lucy asked. "Miss Blanchet could describe him, or get a photograph, and we could give orders that no such man was ever to be admitted if he should call and ask to see her. Some one should always go out with her, or she should only go in the carriage. I dread this man; I do indeed. Miss Blanchet is quite right, and she knows more than she says, I dare say. Such terrible things have happened, you know. I read in a paper the other day of a young man who fell in love with a girl—in the country it was, I think, or in Spain perhaps, or somewhere—and she would not marry him; and he hid himself with a long dagger, and when she was going to church he stabbed her several times."

"I don't think Mr. Augustus Sheppard would be likely to do anything of that kind," Miss Blanchet said. "He's a very respectable man, and a steady, grave sort of person."

"You never can tell," Lucy declared. "When those quiet men are in love and disappointed, they are dreadful! I've read a great many things just like that in books."

"Well, dear," Mrs. Money said, "we'll ask your papa. If he knows this gentleman—this person—he can tell us what sort of man he is. It doesn't seem that he is in London now."

"Mamma dear, I don't think Miss Grey is coming in just yet, and it's growing late, and I have to attend the Ladies' Committee of the Saint Angulphus Association, at four."

"You go, mamma, with Theresa," Lucy exclaimed. "I'll wait; I must see Nola. I begin to be alarmed. It's very odd her staying out. I think something must really have happened. That man may have been in town, waiting somewhere. You go. When I have seen Nola, and am satisfied that she is safe, I can get home in the omnibus, or the underground, or the steamboat, or somehow. I'll find my way, you may be sure."

"Papa goes in omnibuses, and he says he doesn't care whether other people do or not."

"Oh, I've seen them in the streets full of women! They don't object to ladies at all."

"But my dear young lady," Miss Blanchet pleaded, "there is not the slightest occasion for your staying. Mr. Sheppard isn't at all that kind of person. Minola is quite safe. She is often out much later than this, although I confess that I did expect her home much earlier to-day."

"I'll stay till Nola comes," the positive little Lucy declared, "unless Miss Blanchet turns me out; and there's an end of that. So, mamma dear, you and Tessy do as you please, and never mind me."

"When she does come?" Lucy interrupted in portentous accents. "Say if she does come, Miss Blanchet."

"When she does come, please don't say anything of Mr. Sheppard. Of course she would not like to think that we spoke about such a subject."

"Oh, of course, of course!" all the ladies chorused, with looks expressive of immense caution and discretion; and in true feminine fashion all honestly assuming that there could be nothing wrong in talking over anybody's supposed secrets so long as the person concerned did not know of the talk.

"I see Miss Grey," said the quiet Theresa suddenly. She had been looking out of the window to see if the carriage was near. As a professed saint she had naturally less interest in ordinary human creatures than her mother and sister had.

"Dear Lucy!" Theresa interposed in tones of mild remonstrance, as if she would suggest that not everybody had a right to make reference to heaven, and that heaven would probably resent any allusion to it by the unqualified.

"Well, I am thankful that she is coming all the same; but I wish you wouldn't call her Miss Grey, Tessy. It seems cold and unfriendly. Call her Nola, please."

Mary Blanchet went to the door and exchanged a brief word or two with Minola, in order that she might be prepared for her visitors. Minola came in, looking very handsome, with her color heightened by a quick walk home and the little excitement of her morning.

"How lovely you are looking, Nola, dear!" Lucy exclaimed, after the first greetings were over. "You look as if you had been having an adventure."

The one thought went through the minds of all her listeners at the same moment, and it shaped itself into a name—"Mr. Augustus Sheppard." All were silent and breathless.

"It was not much," Minola hastened to say. "Only I met Mr. Victor Heron in Regent's Park, and I have been walking with him."

"I wish I had met him," Lucy blurted out. "He is very handsome, and I should like to have walked with him. Oh, what nonsense I am talking!" and she grew red, and jumped up and looked out of the window.

Then they all talked about something else, and the visit closed with a promise that Minola and Mary Blanchet would present themselves at one of Mrs. Money's little weekly receptions, out of season, which was to take place the following evening; and after which Mrs. Money hoped to decoy them into staying for the night. Mary Blanchet went to bed that night in an ecstasy of happiness, only disturbed now and then by a torturing doubt as to whether Mrs. Money would be equally willing to receive her if she had known that she had been the keeper of the court-house at Keeton; and whether she ought not to forewarn Mrs. Money of the fact; and whether she ought not, at least, to call Minola's attention to the question, and submit to her judgment.

Mr. Money was not a very regular visitor at his wife's little receptions out of the season. In the season, and when they had larger and more formal gatherings, he showed himself as much as was fitting and regular; for many of the guests then were virtually his guests, persons who desired especially to see him, and of whose topics he could talk. A good many foreign visitors were there usually—scientific men, and railway contractors, and engineers, and shipbuilders, from Germany, Italy, and Russia, and of course the United States, who looked upon Mr. Money as a person of great importance and distinction, and would not have cared anything about most of Mrs. Money's guests.

The foreigners were curiously right and wrong. Mr. Money was a person of importance and distinction. Every Londoner who knew anything knew his name, and knew that he was clever and distinguished. If a Russian stranger of rank were dining with a Cabinet minister, and were to express a wish to see and know Mr. Money, the minister would think the wish quite natural, and would take his friend down to the lobby of the House of Commons, and make him acquainted with Mr. Money. We have all been foreigners ourselves somewhere, and we know how our longing to see some celebrity, as we suppose, of the land we are visiting, some one whose name was familiar to us in England, has been occasionally checked and chilled by our finding that in the celebrity's own city no one seems to have heard of him. There are only too many celebrities of this kind which shine, like the moon, for those who are a long way off. But Mr. Money was a man of mark in London, as well as in St. Petersburg and New York. Therein the foreigners found themselves right. Yet Mr. Money's position was somewhat peculiar for all that, in a manner no stranger could well appreciate. The Cabinet minister did not ask Mr. Money to meet his friend at dinner; or, at all events, would never have been able to say to his friend, "Money? Oh, yes! Of course you ought to know him. He is coming to-morrow to dine with us. Won't you come and meet him?" The most the Cabinet minister would do would be to get up a little dinner party, suitably adjusted for the express purpose of bringing his friend and Mr. Money together. It would be too much to say that Mr. Money was under a cloud. There rather seemed to be a sort of faint idea abroad that he ought to be, or some day would be, under a cloud, no one knew why.

No such considerations as these, however, would have affected the company who gathered round Mrs. Money in the out-of-season evenings, or could have been appreciated by them. They were, for the most part, entirely out of Mr. Money's line. He came among them irregularly and at intervals; and if he found there any man or woman he knew or was taken with, he talked to him or her a good deal, and perhaps, if it were a man, he carried him and one or two others off to his own study or smoking-room, where they discoursed at their ease. Sometimes Lucelet was sent to her papa, if he was not making his appearance in the drawing-room, to beg him to accomplish some such act of timely intervention. Somebody, perhaps, presented himself among Mrs. Money's guests who was rather too solid, or grave, or scientific, or political, to care for the general company, and to be of any social benefit to them; or some one, as we have said, in whose eyes Mr. Money would be a celebrity, and Mrs. Money's guests counted for nothing. Then Lucy went for her father, if he was in the house, and drew him forth. He was wonderfully genial with his womankind. They might disturb him at any moment and in any way they chose. He seemed to have as little idea of grumbling if they disturbed him as a Newfoundland dog would have of snapping at his master's children if they insisted on rousing him up from his doze in the sun.

"My girls are going to marry any one they like," he would often say; "the poorer the better, so far as I am concerned, so long as they like the girls and the girls like them." As chance would have it, a rich man fell in love with Theresa, and she, in her quiet, sanctimonious way, loved him, and that was settled.

"Now, Lucelet, look out for yourself," Mr. Money would, say to his blushing daughter. "If you fall in love with some fine young fellow, I don't care if he hasn't sixpence. Only be sure, Mrs. Lucelet, that you are in love with him, and that he is in love with you, and not with your expectations."

Lucelet generally smiled and saucily tossed her head, as one who should say that she considered herself a person quite qualified to make an impression without the help of any expectations.

"I sometimes wish the right man would come along, Lucelet," Mr. Money said one day, throwing his arm round his pretty daughter's shoulder, and drawing her to him.

"Papa! do you want to get rid of me so soon? I wonder at you. I know I don't want to get rid of you."

"No, no, dear; it isn't that. Never mind. Where's your mamma? Just run and ask her"—and Mr. Money started something else, and put an end to the conversation.

Mr. Money's ideas with regard to the future of his daughters did not fail to become known among his acquaintances in general, and would doubtless have drawn young men in goodly numbers around his home, even if Lucelet were far less pretty than she really was. But in any case Mrs. Money loved to be friendly to young people, and her less formal parties were largely attended, almost always, by the young. Miss Theresa's future husband did not come there often. He had known the family chiefly through Mr. Money and Parliament; and, coming once to dine with Mr. Money, he fell fairly in love with the dove-like eyes and saintly ways of Theresa. Theresa was therefore what her father would have called "out of the swim." She looked tolerantly upon her mother's little gatherings of poets en herbe, artists who were great to their friends, patriots hunting for constituencies, orators who had not yet caught the speaker's eye, and persons who had tried success in all these various paths and failed. She looked on them tolerantly, but her soul was not in them; it floated above them in a purer atmosphere. It was now, indeed, floating among the spires of the church which her lover was to build.

One peculiarity seemed common to the guests whom Mrs. Money gathered around her. On any subject in which they felt the slightest interest they never felt the slightest doubt. The air they breathed was that of conviction; the language they talked was that of dogma. The men and women they knew were the greatest, most gifted, and most beautiful in the world; the men and women they did not know were nothing—were beneath contempt. Every one had what Lowell calls an "I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air." In that charmed circle every one was either a genius destined yet to move the world, or a genius too great for the dull, unworthy world to comprehend. It was a happy circle, where success or failure came to just the same.

All in a flutter of delight was Mary Blanchet when preparing to enter that magical circle. She was going at last to meet great men and brilliant women. Perhaps, some day, she might even come to be known among them—to shine among them. She could never be done embracing Minola for having brought her to the gate of that heaven. She spent all the day dressing herself and adjusting her hair; but as the hours went on she became almost wretched from nervousness. When it was nearly time for them to go she was quivering with agitation. They went in a brougham hired specially for the occasion, because, although Mrs. Money offered to send her carriage, and Mary would have liked it much, Minola would hear of nothing of the kind. Mary was engaged all the way in the brougham in the proper adjustment of her gloves. At last they came to the place. Minola did the gentleman's part, and handed her agitated companion out. Mary Blanchet saw a strip of carpet on the pavement, an open door with servants in livery standing about, blazing lights, brightly dressed women going in, a glimpse of a room with a crowd of people, and then Minola and she found themselves somehow in a ladies' dressing-room.

"Minola, darling, don't go in without me. I am quite nervous—I should never venture to go in alone."

Minola did not intend to desert her palpitating little companion, who now indeed clung to her skirts and would not let her go had she been inclined. Miss Blanchet might have been a young beauty just about to make her début at a ball, so anxious was she about her appearance, about her dress, about her complexion; and at the same time she was so nervous that she could hardly compel her trembling fingers to give the finishing touches which she believed herself to need. Minola looked on wondering, puzzled, and half angry. The poetess was unmistakably a little, withered, yellowing old maid. She had not even the remains of good looks. No dressing or decoration possible to woman could make her anything but what she was, or deceive any one about her, or induce any one to feel interested in her. The handsome, stately girl who stood smiling near her was about to enter the drawing-room quite unconcerned as to her own appearance, and indeed not thinking about it; and the homely little old maid was quite distressed lest the company generally should not sufficiently admire her, or should find any fault with her dress.

"Come along, you silly poetess," said Minola at last, breaking into a laugh, and fairly drawing her companion away from the looking-glass. "What do you think anybody will care about you or me? We'll steal in unnoticed, and we'll be all right."

"It's the first time I ever was in London society, Minola, dear, and I'm quite nervous."

"It's the first time I ever was in London society, and I'm not a bit nervous. No one knows us, dear—and no one cares. So come along."

She fairly carried Mary Blanchet out of the dressing-room, along a corridor lined with seats, on which people who had been in the drawing-room and had come out, were chattering, and flirting, and lounging—and at last over the threshold of the drawing-room, and into the presence of the hostess. A few friendly words were got through, and Minola dragged her companion along through the crowd into the recess formed by a window where there were some unoccupied seats.

"Now, Mary, that's done. The plunge is made, dear! We are in society! Let us sit down here—and look at it."

"I suppose it is, dear. At least it will do very well for you and me. We should never know any difference. Imagine all these people marquises and countesses, and what more can we want to make us happy? They may be marquises and countesses for all I know."

"I should think there must be some great poets, and authors, and artists, Minola. I am sure there must be. Oh, there is my brother!"

In effect Mr. Herbert Blanchet had already fixed his dark eyes on Minola, and was making his way up to her retreat, rather to Minola's distress. He addressed Minola at once with that undefinable manner of easy and kindly superiority which he always adopted toward women, and which, it must be owned, impressed some women a great deal. To his sister he held out, while hardly looking at her, an encouraging hand of recognition.

"Delavar? He was the greatest painter of our time—at least of his school; for I don't admit that his school is the true one."

"In the other room—yes. He painted it for Mr. Money—for Mrs. Money rather I should say—and it has just been sent home. Come with me and I will show it to you."

"We'll come back for Mary presently. The rooms are too full. We couldn't all get through. If you'll take my arm, Miss Grey!"

Minola rose and took his arm, and they made their way slowly through the room. They moved even more slowly than was necessary, for Herbert Blanchet was particularly anxious to show off his companion and himself to the fullest advantage. The moment Minola entered the room he saw that she was the handsomest girl there, and that her dressing was simple, graceful, and picturesque. He knew that before a quarter of an hour had passed everybody would be asking who she was, and he resolved to secure for himself the effect of being the first to parade her through the rooms. He was a singularly handsome man—as has been said before—almost oppressively handsome; and a certain wasted look about his eyes and cheeks added a new and striking effect to his appearance. He was dark, she was fair; he was a tall man, she was a rather tall girl; and if his face had a worn look, hers had an expression of something like habitual melancholy, which was not perhaps in keeping with her natural temperament, and which lent by force of contrast an additional charm to her eyes when they suddenly lit up at the opening of any manner of animated conversation. No combination could be more effective, Mr. Blanchet felt, than that of his appearance and hers; and then she was a new figure. So he passed slowly on with her, and he knew that most people looked at them as they passed. He took good care, too, that they should be engaged in earnest talk.

"I am delighted to have you all to myself for a moment, Miss Grey—to tell you that I know all about your goodness to Mary. That is why I would not bring her with us now. No—you must let me speak—I am not offering you my thanks. I know you would not care about that. But I must tell you that I know what you have done. I have no doubt that you are her sole support—poor Mary!"

"Her only friend too. Her brother has not done much for her. To tell you the truth, Miss Grey, it isn't in his power now. You don't know the struggles of us, the unsuccessful men in literature, who yet have faith in ourselves. I am very poor. My utmost effort goes in keeping a decent dress-coat and buying a pair of gloves; I don't complain—I am not one bit deterred, and I only trouble you with this confession, because whatever I may have been in the past I had rather you knew me to be what I am—a wretched, penniless struggler—than believe that I left my sister to be a burden on your friendship."

"Mary is the only friend I have," said Minola. "It is not wonderful if I wish to keep her with me. And you will make a great success some time."

"If one hadn't to grind at things for bare living, one might do something. I am not bad enough, or good enough; and that's the truth of it. I dare say if I were mean enough to hunt after some woman with money, I might have succeeded as well as others—but I couldn't do that."

"I am not mean enough for that. But I am not high-minded enough to accept any path, and be content with it and proud of it. Now I shan't bore you any more about myself. I wanted you to know this that you might not think too harshly of me. I know you felt some objection to me at first; you need not try politely to deny it."

"Oh, no; I don't want to deny it. I prefer truth to politeness, a great deal. I did think you had neglected your sister; but really I was not surprised. I believe other men do the same thing."

"Glad to hear that I am so wretchedly poor, Miss Grey?" he said with a smile, and bending his eyes on her. "Glad to hear that your friend's brother is such a failure?"

"I would rather a thousand times hear that you were poor than that you were heartless. I don't call it a failure to be poor. I should call it a failure to be selfish and mean."

She spoke in a low tone, but very earnestly and eagerly, and she suddenly thought she was speaking too eagerly, and stopped.

"Well," he said, after a moment's pause, "here is the picture. We shall get to it presently, when these people move away."

They had entered, through a curtained door, a small room which was nearly filled with people standing before a picture, and admiringly criticising it. Minola, with all her real or fancied delight in noting the jealousies and weaknesses of men and women, could hear no words of detraction or even dispraise.

"Would you think it cheap cynicism if I were to ask why they all praise the picture—why they don't find any fault with it?"

"Oh, because they are all of the school, and they must support their creed. Our art is a creed to us. I don't admit that I am of Delavar's school any more; in fact, I look upon him as a heretic. He is going in for mere popularity; success has spoilt him. But to most of these people here he is still a divinity. They haven't found him out yet."

This little exclamation broke from Minola as some people at length struggled their way outward, and allowed her to see the whole of the picture.

The scene was a graveyard, under a sickly yellow moon, rising in a livid and greenish sky. A little to the left of the spectator was seen a freshly-opened grave. In the foreground were two figures—one that of a dead girl, whom her lover had just haled from her coffin, wrapped as she was in her cerements of the tomb; the other that of the lover. He had propped the body against the broken hillock of the grave, and he was chanting a love-song to it which he accompanied on his lute. His face suggested the last stage of a galloping consumption, further enlivened by the fearsome light of insanity in his eyes. Some dreary bats flopped and lollopped through the air, and a few sympathetic toads came out to listen to the lay of the lover. The cypresses appeared as if they swayed and moaned to the music; and the rank weeds and grasses were mournfully tremulous around the sandalled feet of the forlorn musician.

Minola at first could not keep from shuddering. Then there followed a shocking inclination to laugh.

"No? It is trivial. Mere prettiness; just a striving after drawing-room popularity. No depth of feeling; no care for the realistic power of the scene. Pretty, pleasing—nothing more. Surface only; no depth."

"Hideous? Oh, no! Decay is loveliness; decay is the soul of really high art when you come to understand it. But there is no real decay there. That girl's face is pretty waxwork. There's no death there," and he turned half away in contempt. "That is what comes of being popular and a success. No; Delavar is done. I told him so."

"He's getting old now," Blanchet said. "He must be quite thirty. Let me see—oh, yes; fully that. He had better join the pre-Raphaelites now; or send to the Royal Academy; or hire a gallery and exhibit his pictures at a shilling a head. I fancy they would be quite a success."

Some of this conversation took place as they were making their way through the crowd with the intention of entering the drawing-room again. Minola was greatly amused, and in a manner interested. The whole thing was entirely new to her. As they passed into the corridor there were one or two vacant seats.

"We'll go back presently. She is very happy; she loves above all things observing a crowd."

Minola would have liked very much to observe the crowd herself and to have people pointed out to her. Blanchet, however, though he saluted several persons here and there, did not seem particularly interested in any of them. Minola sat down for a while to please him, and to show that she had no thought of giving herself airs merely because she was enabled to be kind to his sister.

Blanchet threw himself sidelong across his chair and leaned toward Minola's seat. He knew that people were looking at him and wondering who his companion was, and he felt very happy.

"I wish I might read some of my poems to you, Miss Grey," he said. "I should like to have your opinion, because I know it would be sincere."

"I should be delighted to hear them, but I don't think I should venture to give an opinion; my opinion would not be worth anything."

"Oh, yes; we are staying here tonight, but we shall be at home in the afternoon. Are these published poems? Pray, excuse me—I quite forgot; you don't publish. You don't care for fame—the fame that sets other people wild."

"We don't care for the plaudits of the stupid crowd," he said; "that is quite true. We don't care for popularity, and to have our books lying on drawing-room tables, and kept by the booksellers bound in morocco ready to hand, to be given away as gift books to young ladies. But we should like the admiration of a chosen few. The truth is, that I don't publish my poems because I haven't the money. They would be a dead loss, of course, to any one who printed them; I am proud to say that. I would not have them printed at all if they couldn't be artistically and fitly brought out; and I haven't the money, and there's an end. But if I might read my poems to you, that would be something."

Minola began to be full of pity for the poor poet, between whom and possible fame there stood so hard and prosaic a barrier. She was touched by the proud humility of his confession of ambition and poverty. Three sudden questions flashed through her mind. "I wonder how much it would cost? and have I money enough? and would it be possible to get him to take it?"

Her color was positively heightening, and her breath becoming checked by the boldness of these thoughts, when suddenly there was a rushing and rustling of silken skirts, and Lucy Money, disengaging herself from a man's arm, swooped upon her.

"You darlingest, dear Nola, where have you been all the night? I have been hunting for you everywhere! Oh—Mr. Blanchet! I haven't seen you before either. Have you two been wandering about together all the evening?"

Looking up, Minola saw that it was Mr. Victor Heron who had been with Lucy Money, and that he was now waiting with a smile of genial friendliness to be recognized by Miss Grey. It must be owned that Minola felt a little embarrassed, and would rather—though she could not possibly tell why—not have been found deep in confidential talk with Herbert Blanchet.

She gave Mr. Heron her hand, and told him—which was now the truth—that she was glad to see him.

"Hadn't we better go and find Mary?" Blanchet said, rising and glancing slightly at Heron. "She will be expecting us."

"No, please don't take Miss Grey away just yet," Victor said, addressing himself straightway, and with eyes of unutterable cordiality and good-fellowship, to the poet. "I haven't spoken a word to her yet; and I have to go away soon."

"I'll go with you to your sister, Mr. Blanchet," said Lucy, taking his arm forthwith. "I haven't seen her all the evening, and I want to talk to her very much."

So Lucy swept away on Mr. Blanchet's arm, looking very fair, and petite, and pretty, as she held a bundle of her draperies in one hand, and glanced back, smiling and nodding, out of sheer good-nature, at Minola.

Year after year we'll gather here,

And pass the night in merry cheer.

Through storm and war, o'er sea and land,

We'll come each year to Neckar's strand:

In war and storm, on land and sea,

To this our pledge we'll faithful be,

And each to all be true.

So sang three students one March night—.

Without the storm wind blew,.

Within were wine and warmth and light.

And three hearts brave and true.

"To-morrow morn we all go hence,"

Said Wilhelm, speaking low.

"For Emil fights for Fatherland,

Franz o'er the sea doth go,.

"And I in Berlin, with my books,

Will lead a scholar's life—

In toil, and war, and foreign land,

We thus begin the strife.".

Three glasses then with Rhineland wine

Unto the brim were filled,

And to the sacred parting pledge

Each heart responsive thrilled..

Three years went by, and so the friends

Unto their faith were true,

And spent the night in merry song

And lived the past year through..

When came the fourth reunion night

Without the March wind blew,

Within were wine, and warmth, and light,

And one heart brave and true..

For Emil died for Fatherland,

And Franz went down at sea—

In war and storm, in life and death,

They said they'd faithful be:.

And so Wilhem three glasses filled.

Of one he kissed the edge;

Two shadow hands the others raised—

The friends had kept their pledge!.

Ten or fifteen years ago we rarely saw cigarettes in this country, their use being confined to the few natives who had acquired the habit during a residence abroad, and to foreigners, French, Italian, and Cuban settlers, who followed the practices of their youth. So slight was the general demand that, excepting in the large cities, cigarettes were rarely found for sale. To-day there are probably few small towns in the thickly settled portions of the country where cigarettes are not readily obtained; while in the large cities the stores vie with each other in giving us varied assortments of leading brands. Indeed, recent statistics state that nearly thirty per cent. of the entire smoking tobacco consumed in the United States is in this form. Cigarettes are now imported from all portions of Europe, but principally from France. Several factories have of late years been started in our own country, but the cigarette par excellence is made in Havana. Nowhere else do we find capital so largely invested, labor so diversified, or such attention to details. There certainly you can take your choice—Honoradez, Havana, Astrea, Cherito, Henriquez, and dozens of others of lesser note.

The tobacco used in the making of the Havana cigarettes is bought from the cigar factors, but only from those who have the most assured reputation. It consists of the leaves left from the making of cigars. The necessity of securing the best grades of tobacco cannot be overestimated. The judgment of the cigarette smoker is formed solely from the sense of taste. He is totally unaffected by sight, which in the cigar enables a clever workman to so roll bad tobacco that we are predisposed in favor of an inferior article. While absolute inferiority is intolerable in either, mediocrity, in Cuba at all events, is much more readily tolerated in the cigar than in the cigarette.

The tobacco for the cigarette is not, as is generally supposed with us, raised on the plantations of the various leading cigar factors. "Bartegas," "Cobania," "Upman," or whatever be the name of our favorite brand, does not depend for its success upon any one plantation. The practice on the part of the leading houses is to send their purchasing agents into the tobacco district as soon as the crop begins to ripen. Sales are then and there arranged, immense sums sometimes being offered in advance, by way of retainer, for a specially likely plantation. The Vuelto Abago district is the favorite one, the planters there holding a position not unlike that occupied by the proprietors of the "Sea Island" plantations in days when "cotton was king." The ability to control the market so as to bring to their own manufactories the choicest tobacco is the main secret of the success of the larger houses, not, as is frequently supposed, any particular superiority in the workmen.

The principal cigarette factory is, as is well known, the factory of M. Susini, "La Honoradez," "Honoradez" signifying in Spanish, honesty, the motto of the house. It consists of a series of irregular buildings, covering an area in space about equal to that occupied by the usual Broadway block. On the upper floor of the principal building we find a lot of tobacco, which has just arrived, and is being prepared for inspection; the first requisite being to remove from it any leaves that are either dead or in any way injured. The tobacco lays loosely scattered over an immense wooden tray, which is kept continually moving, by means of machinery, from one end of a table to the other. Around this table are seated some twelve or fourteen Cuban workmen, all good judges of tobacco. Each one throws aside such leaves as he deems unfit for use, while the slow but yet continual motion given to the tray brings each imperfection successively before the eyes of all. The next step is to free the tobacco from any particles of sand or earth that may adhere to it. This is done by moving the tray by machinery, until it is over a large bin, into which the tobacco is allowed to fall, being subjected in its passage to a powerful current of air induced by means of an immense fan, likewise worked by machinery. One step more, and a very simple one—that of drying—and the tobacco is ready for a change of form. The tobacco is dried by simply exposing it on the roof, for a few hours, to the heat of the sun. For cigarettes it can scarcely be too dry, or for cigars too damp. A Cuban would not think of smoking other than a damp cigar. In the factories one sees the workmen smoking cigars they have just rolled, and no native could understand why one should smoke dry cigars in which so much of the natural flavor has been lost.

Thus far the process has been entirely one of cleansing or of freeing from impurities. The next step is that of cutting the leaves into fine particles in order to adapt the tobacco for cigarettes. The scattered leaves are first collected and subjected to powerful hydraulic pressure, from which they come out looking for all the world like a pile of snuff-colored brick. The moulded tobacco next goes to the cutting machine, falling from thence into a sieve, the meshes of which pass only such pieces as have been reduced to the proper size. The remainder is passed into a hopper, and thence goes for a second cutting. One step more, and the tobacco will be issued to the "rollers." Some half a dozen Chinese enter the room, each carrying with him a small vessel containing an aromatic liquid, with which the loose tobacco is carefully sprinkled. The preparation of this liquid is not known. It is doubtless the desire to keep it secret that leads to the preference of Chinese over native labor.

Before following the tobacco furher, let us look at the remaining portion of the cigarette, the wrapper. The original envelope for the tobacco was doubtless composed of leaves, the followers of Columbus carrying back to Spain accounts of the strange custom existing among the natives of San Salvador, the smoking of tobacco wrapped in the leaves of the palm, which was doubtless the primitive cigarette. In France to this day new straws are much used, but generally paper has become the popular envelope. This paper must be specially manufactured. Most of it comes from Barcelona, where the making of cigarette paper constitutes an important industry. All of that used at the "Honoradez" factory, after inspection, is carefully stamped with the name "Susini." By unrolling any of this brand of cigarettes this mark can be readily seen, and serves as the readiest means of detecting counterfeits. A portion of the paper is sprinkled with various preparations to give to it the flavor of tea, licorice, or such other taste as may suit certain consumers. This explains the variation in the color of the wrapper, which is sometimes straw-color, sometimes brown, but more usually white, the latter color distinguishing the paper which has not been artificially flavored. In the cutting machine the paper is rapidly converted into the proper size for envelopes, while another machine close at hand is turning out little bits of pasteboard for such of the cigarettes as are to be made with a mouthpiece.

Both tobacco and paper are now ready to be given out to the "rollers." Let us go down and watch them as they come pouring in. Both sexes and all ages have representations here. Each one awaits his turn, and then receives, after it has been carefully weighed, his or her allowance of tobacco, some five thousand papers, and a large wooden hoop. The hoop serves as a rude but very accurate gauge, its circumference being of such a size as to properly encompass five thousand cigarettes of such size as will contain the entire amount of tobacco issued. A slight excess of both tobacco and paper, say sufficient to make forty or fifty cigarettes, is usually given, intended for the personal consumption of the employee. When their work is completed and returned to the factory, they receive in exchange therefor a small copper check payable on demand. So common are these checks in Havana that a few years since—possibly it may be so still—they were constantly given to one at the various stores, and were commonly received as current coin.

Physically the cigar and cigarette makers are a sorry lot. The continual odor of tobacco, their constant labor, with bodies bent over tables, calling into play no muscle, no exertion, indeed, whatever, excepting the exercise of their fingers—this cannot fail to have its effect. The cigarette makers are injured, too, by the inhalation of an almost invisible dust arising from the small particles of tobacco. The compensation received appears very small. Four or five cigarettes a minute is accounted good work, and even at this rate two days' steady labor is required to fill a hoop, for which they receive less than two dollars.

The larger number of cigarettes manufactured at Havana are made by machinery which is exceedingly ingenious, and has proved thoroughly successful. The cigarettes made by machinery are not only more tightly wrapped, but also manufactured at a much reduced cost. Each machine is capable of making thirty cigarettes per minute, 1,800 per hour, or 43,200 per day, thus replacing the labor of fourteen men, presuming them to be capable of working ten hours per day. For such persons as prefer making their own cigarettes, pressed packages of tobacco, with little paper books containing the envelopes, are sold. The tobacco is so neatly put up that were it not for the accompanying book, one would almost fancy it to be a package of the most delicate French chocolate. As illustration of the consumption of cigarettes it may be of interest to state that three million cigarettes are made in the Honoradez factory each year, while it is estimated that in their manufacture over six million dollars is annually expended in the city of Havana alone. The Cuban, indeed, is much more of a cigarette than a cigar smoker; the cigarette is his constant companion. Even after dinner the cigarette seems to be preferred. I remember once, at a very charming dinner party, being quite astonished—for it was shortly after my arrival in Havana—to find myself and the host the only cigar smokers. The rest of our number, some six or seven, all Cubans, took to their accustomed cigarette with a unanimity which has always led me to believe that my good host himself felt called upon by his sense of politeness to do violence to his own preference.

In connection with the manufacture of cigarettes, nothing strikes one with more astonishment than the many industries which form accessories to a factory. The printing and lithographic work, a large quantity of which is required for the paper bundles or tasteful pasteboard boxes in which the various packages are put up, is all done by the employees, and even a photograph gallery is at hand for such persons as may desire their own likeness to accompany each package. So cleverly is all this work executed, that until very recently the bank notes and lottery tickets, both of which are largely circulated, were here printed. Rather odd to our American ideas, it must be confessed, is the spectacle of bank notes and lottery tickets being printed side by side—that too in a cigarette factory.

Boxes of tin, of wood, of all shapes and sizes, as well as kegs for exportation to distant points, are made within these same walls, where moulders, machinists, blacksmiths, tinmen, printers, lithographers, engravers, painters, and carpenters, are all furnished with work. Two hundred out of the twenty-five hundred employees are Chinese, and for them is provided a separate dormitory, kitchen, and even bathrooms.

Such is our advertisement. Cheap labor! that is the boon our "society" seeks. We wish to "develop our resources"; and as rapidly as possible, for in that lies all blessedness—real "sweetness and light."

Has not this delightful gospel been preached to us from pulpit and forum now full fifty good years, and does any one doubt its divine origin? Yes; I fear there is now and then to be found one of those antiquated infidels who scorns our "cheap cotton" and holds fast to manhood; who sniffs at our great new factory and says, "Give me a man!"

It is some two years ago that one of these benighted men told me—I pity him—he told me he had been into our beautiful Berkshire county to enjoy the delicious air and the delightful mountains. He went to North Adams, which lies so calm and basks so peacefully in the embraces of its sheltering hills. He said that when the noonday bell clanged out, a living torrent of men and women, boys and girls, poured forth from one of the gorgeous temples which have been there raised for the worship of the new god. In that temple were created cheap shoes. He said these men and women, boys and girls, were haggard, old, squalid, dirty; they showed traces—so it seemed to his jaundiced eyes—of drink, hopelessness, lechery, and vileness. He asked who they were. He was told—and they said it with glee—

And where does it come from—from the homes of New England? Oh, no! From Ireland, from Germany, from Portugal, from China, from Canadian-Acadie, that pastoral spot of which poets sing!

It was a very foolish thing to say, and his calling upon his antiquated God was not only foolish, but useless. His God is not the God now.

He took a ride through the winding roads and wooded hills of that delightful land. His driver proposed to take him round by the "Limestone brook" to show him the new factory.

"Why, didn't you know? They are grinding up the white limestone, and they send away tons and tons on't every day."

"Used for? It's used for mixin'. They make three grades: the sody grade, and the flour grade, and the sugar grade."

"The deuce they do!"—that was a foolish exclamation. "Do you mean that they use this to mix with flour and sugar?"

The man laughed pityingly. "Of course they do. It makes 'em healthier. Flour and sugar is healthier and goes further with a little of this 'ere limestone dust mixed in—you see. It's cheaper too. This stuff is sold for fifty cents a hundred, and flour, you know, costs six dollars a hundred. Don't you see?"

The benighted infidel did see, and he indulged in some internal ejaculations; but he fled from the simple and sincere hills of Berkshire, and sought a solace in the coarse vulgarity and vice of Boston.

But I am neglecting to say what our society proposes to do; and when I have told you of course we shall expect you to subscribe.

"The Cheap Labor Society" proposes to introduce from Africa and China, in batches of one thousand each, as rapidly as possible, able-bodied men who will work cheap.

"To develop the resources" of the country is the end and aim of all honorable men. In other words, we want cheap men so that we may make cheap shoes, cheap hats, cheap mutton, and—cheap women.

We who are now here—we do not wish to work at all. Work is a curse. The Bible has said so, and every noble-minded man has said so, and the clergy has said so, and we know it is and must be so. But yet there are people existing in the depths of Africa and China who it is believed will work rather than starve; and these we propose to bring as rapidly as our means will permit.

We head our appeal, as you see, "Work wanted for a thousand starving men," because we know that we can get more work out of men who are just on the edge of starvation than from any other, and in that way we shall "develop our resources" most effectively and rapidly.

It is quite true that we already produce more cotton cloth and more boots and shoes than we can possibly sell; but we know—for have we not political economy to teach us?—that when we get them cheap enough, say to one-half their present starvation prices—every man, and every woman, and every child will wear two shirts, and two hats, and two pairs of shoes; and thus we shall have in a superior way that blessedness of which poets write—the making "two blades of grass grow where one grew before." Now, I ask any liberal-minded man if "two pairs of shoes in place of one" is not higher and nobler than two blades of grass? That goes without talking.

If work be indeed the curse of curses, why, let the sons of Ham (Africa) and the sons of Shem (Asia) do it; for it is well known they are accursed, and have been since the days of "good old Noah"; besides which, having colored skins, we know just how to mark the helots; can import them as fast as needed; can put all labor upon them, and can thus keep our own Japhetic skins and hands clean and white.

Deferring to a not wholly extinct public opinion, which is now and then announced by some orator to some small schoolboys, in words like these, Labore est honore, and in the vernacular, "Labor is honorable," I am compelled to deny it clearly and distinctly. Almost all know it, but it may be best to say to those who do not:

If labor is honorable, why does every man refuse to hoe in his garden, to make his fire, to raise his food? Why does every woman refuse to cook her food, to make her clothes, to take care of her children? Why do every father and every mother take special pains to so bring up and educate their children that they can do no sort of hand work? Why is it that high schools, and academies, and colleges are held as the most majestic of blessings, except that they are intended to wholly unfit boys and girls for the necessary work of life?

Why is it that those who do no work are always called "upper classes," and those who do much work are called "the masses," unless it is so? Being so, let us agree to import "the masses" as rapidly as we can.

Permit me to here lay down another corner-stone: As cheapness is a boon, of course cheap labor is a boon; if labor, even at a dollar a day, is a blessing, it follows that labor at half a dollar a day is a greater blessing; and if we can only get it to a quarter of a dollar a day, will not mankind be four times as happy as when it is at a dollar a day? And then, oh blessed time! When we get it down to one cent a day shall we not be standing just in the portals of Paradise?

Let all men take heart, for we approach that time. I learned last summer, in the lovely State of Connecticut, that the Messrs. Sprague were hiring able-bodied men to work eleven hours a day, sometimes in water and mud, at rebuilding their great Baltic dam, for eighty-three cents a day, and that thousands more were ready to rush in. I may recall to mind the dark ages, when ignorance prevailed, and men boasted of a land (if there was one) where

All of that kind! Then there could have been no cheap labor, and the boon which we now know to be the greatest vouchsafed to man could not be enjoyed. There have been times when strong, honest men and strong, honest (and permit me to say clean) women were thought to be the fruition of a perfect and Christian civilization—when cheap cotton was not thought to be the "one thing needful."

The good King Henri of Navarre is said to have hoped for the day when in France the poorest peasant might have a fowl in his pot.

Besotted king! he did not know that in the good time coming, when we shall bring in our one to ten thousand cheap Chinese per week, the white man will be happy indeed who can get a pound of rice or potatoes in his pot. A fowl in his pot! Foolish king!

"Progress"—what a lovely word!—progress has shown all mankind what a glorious thing cheap labor is and must be. How great and happy are the people who preach and practise it! "Progress"—a beautiful word certainly, if we do really understand it. But I remember me of a man—a brewer—who rather late in life had fallen in love with the word "docile." He thought it a beautiful word. One day his partner returned, having failed to collect a doubtful debt. My friend essayed it, but returned red in the face.

Now it means cheap cotton and cheap men and women. To the enlightened and prosperous English nation belongs the credit of this radical discovery.

To England too belongs the invention or creation of our new god. She—I am happy to say it—she invented and created the god we now worship. We call him

Whatever nation or man worships this god, and obeys this first and great commandment, is sure of blessedness; for that man or that nation will get more money than other men and other nations, as England has; and will be happy, as she is!

Swiftly and surely the belief and worship of the new god and the new gospel is spreading into all lands. Men fancy they still worship "the Trinity," "Confucius," "Zoroaster," "Mohammed," "Mumbo-jumbo." It is wholly a fancy. Men still say, "I believe in God the Father," etc. They still say, "Do to others as you would have them do to you," is the first and great commandment. But what they do do, and wish to do, and mean to do, is,

We need no missionaries to drive this gospel into heathen minds. It has the charming vitalizing power of going itself. The Chinese have received it, and have immediately taken the whole tea business out of the hands of Messrs. Russell & Co. and Jardine, Matheson & Co.; have quite put an extinguisher upon their money-making. Indeed, do we not know that almost every European, Chinese, and Indian merchant has failed, and the heathen Chinee sits in their seats.

How England came to invent this new gospel is known to many, though not to all. Let me briefly sketch the amazing creation:

A century ago the strength and power of England was based upon her yeomanry. They possessed much land; and upon the lovely rolling fields of that lovely country their stone farm-houses and their small farms were the homes and habitations of millions. From this strong and hardy yeomanry were drawn the bowmen and the pike-men who made the armies of the Edwards and the Henrys invincible; from them came the "jolly tars" who seized victory for Drake and Nelson.

Then Liverpool was not, and Manchester was not, and creation did not pay tribute to England's god.

But a century ago Watt, the keen, canny Scotsman, discovered that steam was a giant, and could he but capture him and harness him into his machine, what work might he not do? He did capture him, and he did harness him to his machine; and now he works on, on, up, down, here, there, not ceasing by night and day, by summer and winter; he tires not, he rests not; for ever and for ever he toils on. He saws, he grinds, he spins, he weaves, he ploughs, he thrashes, he drags, he lifts. Such a giant he is!

One man with the steam machine now does the work which once was done by ten, twenty, fifty! He files, he cuts, he sews, he polishes, he brews, he bakes, he washes, he irons. Is all this nothing?

Trade now was exaggerated beyond all former measure, and henceforth was to be the god of England and of the world. "Let us produce, let us buy cheap and sell dear, and so we shall be blessed." England had coal deep down in her bowels. Let her send her sons by thousands into the slime and darkness to dig it out. Let her make steam, and cheap cotton, and infinite iron, and let her make all mankind buy of her. "Let us," she cried, "demand free trade! for we can make cheap and sell dear, and none can rival us."

She did demand free trade. She demanded it in India by seizing a kingdom. She demanded it in China at the cannon's mouth. She got it.

She said to all peoples, "You may make corn, and cotton, and wool for us, and we will make everything you want cheaper than you can make it for yourselves, and happy you will be. We will make all the ships, will bring your corn, and cotton, and wool to us, and we will carry all our lovely manufactures to you, to the uttermost ends of the earth—at your cost. We will take toll of you both ways; we will make fair profit on your cotton, and on our manufactures, and that will be just and even, and we shall both be happy."

And so it has gone on for a hundred years, and gold has poured into England's stomach, a flowing stream, until her eyes stick out with fatness; she has even sought Turkish bonds for investment, and has lent much money to the good Khedive of Egypt—which she can't get back!

Let us look at England for a moment, as she is to-day. She has built magnificent temples dedicated to her great god all over England: at Birmingham and Manchester, at Glasgow and Paisley; at Birkenhead and Liverpool, at Preston and Salford, at Leeds and Nottingham—and where not? England has become a great workshop in which the god of trade is ministered to.

Her land? Yes, it is beautiful, but her yeoman have disappeared—all have been drawn into the maw of the manufacturing monster. Forty millions of people now has England, and only some seven per cent. of them raise the food they eat. And how do the rest get their food? It is quite simple: by selling to other nations the things they make, and bringing back the food which other nations make.

It has been the boast of England that she had a larger population to the square mile—389 human bodies—than any other land except one, and more great cities than any other land but the "far Cathay"—if even she be an exception.

"Bold peasantry," "stalwart yeomen," "hard-handed farmers"—what preposterous phrases these seem now when we have the immense advantages of "cheap labor"!

Great factories, great halls, great shops, abound—abound and magnify that English land, so that a glamour has come over mankind, and moon-faced idiots in all lands have cried, "Behold the glory of England. Let us do likewise." Those great cities have glorified themselves and have glorified England, and who has cared to look deeper down into the mire? Have we seen these men and women, childhood and age, reeking in squalor and vile with filth in the purlieus of every temple? Have we looked into the slums of Liverpool and Glasgow, of Edinburgh and Newcastle, to see men and women, childhood and age, in all their divinity—or their damnation? Is all lovely—is it indeed? Is this "progress"? Is it civilization? Is it Christianity? Of course it is, all three.

I have mentioned the word revolution—social revolution. What is it? Is it at hand? It is quite clear that this amazing power of steam and machinery is doing something. It is quite clear that every machine does the work of twenty men, and nineteen of these have got to seek other means of support—they and their wives and their little ones.

It is well known that every man out of work means four mouths bare of food. Who fills them? The rates (taxes) of course, and in London, the last winter I was there, some six years ago, 80,000 paupers and beggars were receiving public aid. "The laws of trade" is to make things right. I think that is the name of the modern redeemer of men. If work is not there and food is not there, man will flow at his own sweet will, like water seeking its level, until he finds his food and his work somewhere. But if man's "sweet will" decides not to flow, but to lie down and make his bed in your pockets, and feed on the contents in the shape of taxes—what is to come then? Why, he must be depleted, or he will deplete you. How to deplete him is a most interesting question? He does not deplete himself, for it is manifest to men that paupers in England and America get children as fast as they can; and the clergy applaud and say, "Be fruitful and multiply." There is no continence among them—none anywhere except in wicked France.

In the "good time coming" in England, the pauper will lie down with the prince, and there will be peace while the pauper devours the prince; or there will be pestilence, which is a sure depleter; or the idle army may be used to deplete the mob. Who can say?

What has been will be, under the benign influence of cheap labor and free trade—perhaps! Let me go on with my pleasant tale—do not interrupt—I have the word—by and by you.

At this moment, to-day, this year of our Lord 1877, the merchant princes of London, the manufacturing barons of Manchester are at their wits' ends; for people refuse to buy the products of their mills. Germany will not have them, and France will not, and America chooses to make her own; and even India, ungrateful that she is, has gone to spinning her own cotton. Mills are being closed in England, furnaces are blown out, wages are reduced, and workmen are threatening to strike, or have struck, and are settling down for a comfortable winter upon the rates. All right! England has "developed her resources," and trade is free. Let her sing hosannahs, and cry, "Glory be to our god," for no such beautiful "progress" was ever seen on earth before.

What is to happen to the 300,000 or half million land-owners of England, if outside pig-headed peoples wilfully and maliciously refuse to buy the mill products of England and so to feed the 37,200,000 people of England who have no land upon which to raise their own food? What is to happen if some fine day the 37,200,000 take it into their foolish heads to say:

"We do not like to starve. We are many, you are few. We will take the land and raise our own food, and you can emigrate if you like, or you can stand out in the cold as we have done. We don't like it."

It is not quite easy to shoot those people; and if they choose to stay in England, it is not quite easy to make them emigrate—not even if the "laws of trade" tell them they really ought to go.

And besides, it is so easy for 100,000 paupers to emigrate—to take their wives and their children, their flocks and their herds, their camels and their asses, their beds and their tents, and go forth to seek the promised land—the land flowing with milk and honey. It is so simple, so pleasant, that one is lost in amazement that they do not go—that they wickedly persist in staying where they are paupers, and refuse to obey the law of "supply and demand."

Such conduct is quite unworthy of enlightened Britons who "never will be slaves."

It is too bad—it really is—and political economy ought to be preached at them severely. Why is it too that outside barbarians refuse to buy the divine productions of England? Some think we may do well to take a look at this part of the problem before we go on with our plans for introducing more cheap labor into our own happy land.

A century ago, as has been said, England discovered the wonderful way of applying the steam giant to the creation of manufactured goods, and for three-quarters of the century she has had a practical monopoly; has turned the golden streams of the whole world to enrich herself; has preached free trade; has said, "Buy cheap and sell dear," and has set her god on a high throne. But slowly and haltingly other and stupider nations have caught the tricks of the new Cultus; have caught little steam giants, and have set them to work to turn their mills and grind their grists. Germany and the United States are two of these dull nations who have done a stroke of work in this way. France has really been too stupid to do much at it—has indeed gone back to a tariff after having tasted of the new gospel, and now obstinately refuses to live by it—will pay her debts, and will not enjoy unlimited pauperism.

Germany has, however, done well. She now makes woollens, cottons, linens, irons, steels, penknives, and Bibles quite as cheap as England, and, as some say (one of her own Centennial Commission), "cheaper and nastier." Now her traders are ubiquitous; they go, with the wandering Jew, the fascinating Englishman, the penetrating Yankee, into all heathen lands, carrying everywhere the new gospel of trade, and introducing to youthful minds the civilizing influences of lager beer and free lunches. Aided by the persuasive tones of the patient and soothing Yankee, they are doing wonders in teaching the value of time, by founding establishments for "stand-up drinks" in every lazy and luxurious land, by giving prizes to all who smoke while they work, thus making labor cheerful if not respectable. So patient and indefatigable has Germany been, that at Manchester in England, which may perhaps be termed the Delos of the new faith, I was told some five years ago that she had just taken the contract, had bought from Germany the iron beams and rafters for a new city building, and had put them up under the very noses of the worshippers who burn their sacred fires at Birmingham and Wolverhampton. And so, in the whirligig of time, Trade brings his pleasant revenges.

I was told also—the newspapers said it, and it must be true—that Mr. Mundella, an enterprising M.P., and a devout worshipper of the new god, who is a vast producer at Nottingham of stockings and hosiery of every sort—had found it best—well, absolutely necessary—in order to compete with the new disciples in Germany, to remove a part of his machines and machinery to Germany, and make his stockings there, in order that those ridiculous and cheap Germans should not quite put a stop to his trade. It was whispered about that French-made tools were being bought and brought into England for use there, and it was said openly that American saws, vises, and axes were playing the very deuce; and now, just after the triumphs of the "Centennial," Englishmen are writing home that Yankee silks will also play another very deuce with them if they don't get more and cheaper labor. I see too, by late letters from England, that they propose to cheapen iron by putting cheap Chinese labor into the iron works!

And yet in Germany they cry out that they have a panic, and that trade is dull, and people will persist in failing, and that other people won't buy all they can make; they too are at their wits' ends. There must be something wrong, the "doctrinaires" say, about the gases. Trade is not free enough, or labor is not cheap enough, or they have too much or too little paper money, or they don't try woman suffrage. At any rate the new gospel is right—must be right, because if you obey the laws of trade and buy cheap and sell dear, you are sure to be happy.

And France—it is frightful to think of France. Steeped in stupidity and enveloped in Cimmerean fog, she resists the new gospel. She will not send her missionaries abroad over the world; she will not build great factories and temples; she will not take her whole people from their small farms, where they raise great surpluses of food, to put them into the new temples; she does not even work her land with steam, nor does she hanker for the cheap (and nasty) things which England and Germany are so ready, willing, and anxious to pour into every household; indeed, will not have them at all. Oh, the economic condition of France makes the heart of the enlightened priest of the new gospel weep. France has taken no steps to introduce the cheap labor of Ireland or China, or even of Africa—right at her doors—into her own wretched country, and there is no sign that she will. What feeling but contempt can the sincere doctrinaire entertain for France?

It would be indeed strange—and yet it is not wholly impossible—that England and Germany and the United States, all of whom have for centuries been cursing work, and crying out against work, and doing all manner of things to get rid of work, and educating their best and wisest not to do it—it would be indeed strange if some day they should be crying out, "Give us work, in God's name." Strange, but not wholly impossible.

We are the child of England, and we revere, we love, we emulate her. We adopt her methods, we worship her god. We follow in her footsteps, and emulating her example, we send out missionaries to extend the gospel of trade; we love to buy cheap and sell dear; we love to scheme; we delight in speculation, for that is an intellectual operation. We have been taught for centuries that the mind is divine, the body devilish. We do well, therefore, to despise the devilish body and exalt the godlike soul. We do well to depress and belittle the hand, and to glorify and enlarge the head. We do well to say it, and to make men believe it if we can, that the "pen is mightier than the sword" or the plough. We do well to convert our boys and girls into exaggerated heads, even if they are useless, because we thus exalt them toward gods. We do well to leave out of view all just balance between head and hand because that is common and vulgar. We do well to say that the man who says a good thing is greater than he who does a good thing, for the spiritual is divine, and the earthly is base!

Keeping in view the short time we have possessed this land, we may fairly arrogate to ourselves what England has long claimed for herself, great "progress." We have created more great cities, more luxurious habits, more free whiskey, more useless railroads, more brokers' boards, more wild-cat banks, more swindling mining companies, more political jobs, more precocious boys and more fast girls, more bankrupt men and more nervous women than any country known in history. Following the "example of our illustrious predecessor"—England—we have done one thing of which we are justly proud, and the full account of which, illustrated with pictures, our "Government" (as we facetiously call it) has published in some ten fine volumes. And what is the example we followed? It is this: England, having possessed herself of the vast kingdom of India, found a production there of opium very lucrative to her and very desirable to many of the Chinese, who enjoyed the smoking of the pleasing drug. England greatly desired to sell this drug to China, for it was all in the interest of trade. One fine day some Chinese emperor or mandarin took it into his meddling head to check or forbid the freedom of this trade: and then the virtue, the religious fervor of the devoted Briton was roused. Ninety-three thousand chests of good merchantable opium, worth many taels, was not a dogma to be trifled with, not even by the Emperor of the Flowery Kingdom. What! Should trade be impeded by this yellow Mantchu, this devotee of Confucius, this long-eyed heathen, because he had some sentimental notions about his people's morals or manners? Good heavens! Could trade stand that? By no means. Persuasion must bring him to his senses if he had any. Persuasion was tried, and various iron arguments were used. They battered down Canton, they assaulted and took the cities of Amoy, Chusan, Ningpo, Woosung, Shanghai, Nanking; and thus the English missionaries kept on persuading until at last the heathen Chinee yielded: was persuaded to pay $12,000,000, to open the ports of Canton, Amoy, Foochoo, Ningpo, Shanghai to trade; to welcome all future opium with open arms; to make the good Queen Victoria a present of the port of Hong Kong; and so on and on. Thus, under the persuasion of a fraternal war, "trade, civilization, and Christianity" made themselves safe in the high places of China; since which happiness has bourgeoned there if not in England!

Could our youthful but pious nation do better than follow this illustrious example? Certainly not. Something must be done. If China could thus be persuaded to trade by the English, poor little Japan might be persuaded to trade by the United States. We could but try. We did, and Perry sailed away, with his ships and his cannons, to try. The Japs were benighted, foolish, and weak. They declined, and said, "No, we don't want any of your trade. We make all we want, and don't care either for your religion, your opium, your whiskey, or your stovepipe hats."

"But," said the gallant Perry, "that is a wicked sentiment. The brotherhood of nations is the cornerstone of modern civilization. Trade is divine, and stovepipe hats mark the intellectual races. We are your brothers. God has made of one blood all the nations of the earth. If you will not be our brothers, and trade, we shall be obliged to shoot. Don't want to, but must. One—two—three. Bang!"

Well, the Japs also yielded to these arguments, and thenceforth have been happy. Trade has prevailed. Rice has gone up, and a good many Japs have gone to the ethereal spaces, overcome with hunger. Railways have been built, national debts have been created; the Mikado and Tycoon have fought, the Daimios have quarrelled, white men have been assassinated, beggary has begun, taxes press upon the people; and indeed all the signs which mark the high civilization of trade have appeared. "Progress," we are assured, is now certain, and Japan is "developing her resources." Bliss ensues. All of which is written down and printed in many volumes for all men to read. And "Perry's Expedition" can be read in beautiful volumes which cost you, we'll say, $50 for the books and a million for the glorious expedition.

We make any sacrifices for the new religion, and are willing to waste the filthy lucre of gold to extend a divine idea.

Massachusetts! Massachusetts has held herself and has been held as the heart and the brain of New England. She has had (so she has believed) the heart to feel a moral principle and the head to accept a great thought. She has had brave-hearted men and clear-eyed women. Once—let us make a brief retrospect—she had "pilgrim fathers." She had what she and the world too thought a religion, which she believed in. She had a people of sound English stock, who in this clear New England air grew to hate squalor, vice, beggary, debt, and damnation. Once, fifty years ago, she had no great cities; her "Hub," Boston, in 1830 had but the poor population of 61,392, nearly all born on her soil, few of them dirty or beggared. Once, fifty years ago, all through Massachusetts were clean, decent, white-housed towns, such as Worcester, and Springfield, and Northampton, and Concord, and Salem, and Newburyport, centres of small but most cultivated and earnest social life.

Then small farms were cultivated by families of New England birth, out of whom came able men and handsome women. Children lived with parents, and did not tyrannize them. Silk gowns were rare, and pianos unknown; "art" and "culture" had not become household words, but butter was made at home, and the mystery of bread was known to ladies. Few then had been to Paris, and few therefore knew how vulgar they were. But "where ignorance is bliss," etc. They got on, and did not know what poor creatures they were.

Every child was expected to learn the three R's at the little red school-house, and to perfect his education by taking hold of material nature with his hands, and learning what it was by mastering it. That was education. The parson knew a little Latin, and he was all. They thought this worked well. Lamentable indeed!

The man expected to marry a capable wife, and to bring up children; he expected to work on his land or in his shop, to dress decently in clothes which his wife had made, securing a reasonable support in this world by his own labor, not by hocus-pocus; he provided for his future salvation by imbibing the five points of Calvin through fifty-four sermons a year, with now and then a Thursday lecture to fill in the cracks. Thus he was sure of his food here and of salvation hereafter—through the merciful providence of God, and not his own righteousness. New England thus produced a breed of people unlike and they fancied not inferior to any that history tells of.

But it would not do. There was no progress—it was a lamentable condition of things. They had not got a population of 211.78 to the square mile, raked together from the four corners of creation, making the State the sixth in density of all in the world, as she now boasts she has, and thus she had totally failed to secure the higher and better civilization.

They had not "developed their resources"; they had not built up splendid great cities; they had little knowledge of the delights of trade. Things could not get on so—that was not "progress." Here was water power running to waste all over Massachusetts; there were keen and able heads who believed they knew how to set these powers to work to grind their grists; it was quite ridiculous that these tumbling streams should not be turning millwheels and spinning cheap cotton. And then too not a railroad ran through Massachusetts—no transportation except in wagons. "Good God!" the pious people naturally exclaimed; "what misery, what a slow set!" Money—money was then loaned at only six per cent.! Things must be changed. They were changed. Mill after mill was built, among them the "Atlantic." Railway after railway was built, among them the "Eastern," and the stock was quickly paid up, and all went merry as a marriage bell. But some people own those stocks now, and do not find themselves happy!

What is the cure for these shrivelled dividends? Clearly, is it not, to bring in cheap labor? Let every man who has nothing and wants much, take shares in

Seeing what has been done for Massachusetts, it is easy to see what can be done. And what has been done? In fifty years she has built up Lowell, and Lawrence, and Worcester, and Holyoke, and many more great towns. She has increased Boston to a population of 341,919 souls—or bodies—in the year of grace 1875. She has "improved" things so, has made such progress, that Boston now spends yearly $15,114,389.73 (auditor's report 1875-6), which means that out of every man, woman, and child of Boston was taken in 1875, for public expenses, the sum of forty-four dollars! The happiness resulting from this may be partly understood when I relate that this tax is some four hundred per cent. greater than the "effete aristocracies" of Europe have ever got out of their down-trodden serfs, or have even dared to try to get. One other charming effect of this style of self-government (?), as we please to call it, is, that it has driven out of Boston a set of bloated money getters, who fancy it is not pleasant to pay large taxes, so they go to Nahant, and Barnstable, and Concord for a few months, and rid Boston of themselves and—their taxes! Shrewd fellows those Boston Democrats! They know how to govern a city. So they do in New York. So they do in Cambridge.

But let us look at another of the evidences of true progress. Every man votes, you must know, whether he owns any property or not. Now, Mr. Daniel L. Harris has discovered, in his researches at Springfield, that of the voters there, four pay taxes and five do not; that is, four-ninths of the voters pay the taxes and five-ninths who pay none outvote the four who pay all. This is so generous on the part of the four that we ought to try to see what it is the four really are about. Applying the same ratio to Boston, we find that every tax-payer, every man of the four-ninth party, really paid to the yearly expenditures of the city of Boston, in the blessed year 1875-6, the neat little sum of three hundred and ninety-nine dollars, money of this realm.1

And yet the business men of Boston complain that they have made no money for three years, and that they can't make any. How absurd that is, when they can pay such taxes as these! And then think what they do in Boston for the intellect (as it is called). While they stupidly complain that they can't make any money, they spend on their common schools every year—over two millions of good dollars (2,015,380)—and they teach what—what don't they teach? I counted, I think, thirty-six branches as being taught in the Boston schools last year. "Art" and "culture," you know! And in those brutal old times of fifty years ago, they taught only the three R's. Unhappy and despicable! Did they not deserve it?

And then the generosity of these Boston merchants who can't, as they pretend, make anything. Look for a moment at that!

They paid in 1865 for the teaching of each one of those children those thirty-six branches, so necessary to salvation, the sum of $21.16; in 1875 the sum of $35.23. That is, they voluntarily and gladly paid somebody sixty-six per cent. more for their work in 1875 than in 1865, and all the while those merchants pretend they are making no money. Do they expect us to believe that?

If they want to make money, why not at once bring in more cheap labor? The Chinese are ready to come, and the negroes, even if Ireland can spare no more of her enlightened people. And then what a boon this class of people would be to our aspiring statesman. For the sum of two dollars they are entitled to vote, and then any man who feels a desire to be a governor or an M.C. can, by paying this paltry pittance, secure the votes of a grateful constituency. Is it not, therefore, our supreme duty to bring in this class of voters as rapidly as possible? We need population and we need voters. England has a population of 389 to the square mile and we in Massachusetts have only 211! Should we not hide our faces with shame while such an inferiority lasts?

There are people now who are getting up a scare about the wonderful growth of the Holy Catholic Church, claiming that that church demands of all its members (as it does) allegiance first to the Church, and then second to the government where its subjects happen to be. I do not think much of this now that Antonelli is dead; but there may be something in it. I question whether Massachusetts can any longer put forth pretensions to being a Puritan or a Unitarian or religious State of any sort unless it be a Catholic one. Go with me to the U.S. census report of 1870:

Thus, it seems, the population of Massachusetts is already foreign-born and of foreign parents, over two-thirds. What number of these foreign people are Roman Catholics, any other person can guess as well as I can. But it is quite certain that this blessing, such as it is, has reached us incidentally through our cheap labor; that is, it is a sort of superadded bliss, coming as an unexpected reward of unconscious virtue. In the words of Shakespeare, "We are twice blessed." We have got cheap labor and we have got the Catholic church crowning every hill and blooming in every valley.

At any rate it is quite certain that few if any of this class of the Massachusetts people are either Puritans, Unitarians, or Episcopalians; and some of them I strongly suspect are like the good sailor, neither Catholics nor Protestants, but "captains of the fore-top!" In Massachusetts, as I have said, there was in 1870 of this kind of population sixty-six per cent., and all have votes. In the whole United States there was forty-five per cent. of this sort, all of whom have votes. It is known also that New York, and Boston, and Lowell, and Fall River are intrinsically foreign cities. It is known that the majority of voters in those cities have no property which pays taxes; it is known that this class of voters are now well organized, and can and do vote and do elect such men as will please them—men who "will tickle me if I'll tickle you"—that is the sort of statesman we now welcome with effusion; indeed, we seek no other. We mean to deplete all over-grown fortunes; we mean through the taxes to equalize things and make Saturday afternoons pleasant. I have not at hand, just this moment, the figures to tell what good was done in Boston last year to the class called "the poor." But I have them for Cambridge, a small city almost a part of Boston. In that small select and intellectual city the expenditures in direct aid of "the poor," not counting work which was made for them, was in dollars, $80,000, and that does not count a large sum besides given in private charity. This help was given to some 5,400 persons; stating it simply, in the words of political economy, one person in seven or eight of that cultivated and select community was a pauper. Another feature of this new and peculiar social state is this: that the voters who have no property and pay no taxes do not enjoy the possibility of starving, nor do they look with favor upon advice which tells them to "Go West." Why should they go West? They do not know where to go—indeed, they have no money to go with—nor do they know that there would be any work for them there. They choose to stay where they are, and they will vote for people who will help them to stay; and they have five votes to the tax-payer's four, which significant little fact should not be lost sight of!

In our laudable desire for "progress," in our vital wish "to develop our resources," we have produced many results, some interesting ones, quite unexpected. We have got cheap labor and we have got cheap cotton cloth and cheap boots and shoes, and a good deal of all of them. The smart little city of Lowell was begun by the most capable and enterprising of Boston's "solid men"; it was begun upon a theory that men and women in New England ought to be clean, decent, and virtuous. In its beginning nearly all the operatives were of New England birth, descendants of Puritans who were used to decency, cleanliness, and virtue. Then they lived and lodged in houses belonging to the mills, which were regulated—the men in their own boarding houses, the women in theirs. All were expected to be in their houses by or before a certain hour, say ten o'clock at night.

Then every young lady had a green silk parasol for Sunday's use, and she wrote poetry for the "Lowell Offering," if she felt the divine movement. At that early undeveloped time an English gentleman, one Anthony Trollope, visited the nascent city. He lamented the narrow-mindedness of the projectors, and predicted it would not work; that the little Lowell could never compete with such highly developed cities as Manchester and Preston, where they knew the magic of "cheap labor." In other words, Lowell could not be a great success.

That Arcadian simplicity worked for a while, but inevitably the magic of cheap labor made itself felt—it was potent—it came, it saw, it conquered. And now the best information I have convinces me that the squalor, filth, recklessness, and happiness are nearly or quite equal to what they are in the noble cities of Manchester and Glasgow in England. Should Mr. Trollope revisit those scenes of his youth, he would be as much delighted as any Englishman could permit himself to be with anything outside his "Merrie England" at the delectable advances made there.

He would find labor cheap and cotton cheap—as cheap as they are in his beloved Manchester. He would find, as in his beloved Manchester, that they made more than they could sell; which is the secret of cheapness. He would find that in that small elysium, in the year 1874, they made 135,000,000 yards of cotton cloth, which gospel of cotton they were then spreading abroad over all the earth, sending some of it to his beloved Manchester. He would learn also that there was invested there some $20,000,000 of good money of the realm, a large proportion of which paid no dividends; which also is an excellent method of securing cheapness. He would find all "narrow-minded regulations" quite done away with, and the full liberty of the subject enjoyed by all; that people staid "out nights" according to their own sweet wills; that men slept when they pleased and where they pleased, and with whom they pleased—women too for that matter; and that life was as free and pleasant as his good English heart could wish. He would find that the old-fashioned, narrow-minded New England stock had disappeared—not being cheap enough—and their places were fully supplied with a delightful conglomeration of gentlemen and ladies who had fled from poor Ireland, from the Azores, from Germany, from pastoral Acadie; and here and there he would note the pigtail of the frugal Chinese, the avant courier of a better time coming.

Thus he would find that Lowell, having rid herself of narrow-minded notions, having followed reverently in the footsteps of his illustrious Manchester, was a success indeed.

And Lynn too. She discovered thirty years ago the surprising swiftness of "teams," whereby six or eight men working in partnership, each one doing only one thing, say one a welt, and another a bottom, and another the eyelets, etc., could put a shoe through in one-eighth the time of the old "one-man" way. Millions of shoes were made, and shoes were cheap. Much money flowed in, and life was lovely at Lynn. But Paradise pales if too long continued. The sewing-machines came, and McKaye was a god—for the master. One man with his machine could do the work of twenty or forty men in the teams. Shoes were now amazingly cheap. The Crispins wept, the master laughed, and the making of shoes went merrily on. And what became of the Crispins? They struck! and then—they disappeared, vanished, went too "where the woodbine twineth." They too were not wanted. Let them get themselves out of the way! the Chinese are coming!

They got much consolation from a certain set of preachers, who assured them it was all right—"Laws of trade, you know," "cheap shoes good for the masses," "water will find its level," "the masses in Africa will now be able to wear shoes," "the best government is no government," "all one great brotherhood," "every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost."

Paradise was just beyond their noses, and it lay just here: "When things get very cheap every man will only work three hours a day. All men can play the rest of the time, or they can cultivate their minds!" "Beautiful! Beautiful! Hosannah to the highest!" was what every disbanded Crispin ought to have said; but, foolish man as he was, he kept saying, "My body is hungry, and I have no work, and I will steal some food—or become a broker! You had better look out."

But luckily the Southern war came, and it made places for a good many men, and the "Government" (not us men and women)—the Government paid the bills, and so we were tided over. And now we have got the bills, and we have got cheap labor too! And we are as near to "no government" as any people ever was except wild Indians; and that we know—for the doctrinaires say so—is Paradise. If it is not that, what in Heaven's name is it?

There was once a notion that the men who had knowledge, and experience, and strength, should think for and act for those who had not; in short, that those who were strong should protect and care for the weak. The father in some countries—not all—yet does pursue this plan; he is head and master of his household, and is expected to know how to act and what to do better than his boys and girls.

We have exploded that idea. Under this "best government upon which the sun ever shone," we have made discoveries. We find that children know what they want better than their fathers; that women are really stronger than men, have larger brains, more sense, more heart, and more purity; and that when women and children both vote (mistress Biddy too) the world will go right—for they—the pure, the honest—will "holler out gee!"

This old paternal or family government was a despotism, tempered with love, to be sure, but a despotism not to be tolerated in an enlightened age. Shovel it out, shovel it out!

It is a sad fact that children now, while wiser and purer than their fathers, are not physically quite so strong. But it is found that the pistol puts the holders upon a perfect equality, and that is the thing to be aimed at. The redress of the weak is therefore in the pistol, which I expect to see in every child's pocket soon. The tyrant man will then be degraded to his place. With women voting, and children holding pistols, men and fathers will be pulled down from the pedestal they have usurped so long.

We know that women have more virtue than men (?), and that children have more purity, and therefore, knowing well the "good, the true, and the beautiful," they must and shall govern the land. They shall be tyrannized no longer.

And so, as New England has cut into old England, and has set her own machinery and steam to work making many things cheaper than old England can make them, and bids fair to starve out some of her garrisons of workers, just in the same way have Pittsburgh, and Cincinnati, and Chicago taken it into their heads to set their machinery and steam to work; and now torrents of hats, and shoes, and woollens, and cottons, and clothing, and furniture, and stoves, and pots are pouring out of those nests of industry, so that even they are beginning to cry out, "Why don't you buy what we want to sell, and thus make us rich?"

If, then, we in New England refuse to buy—refuse to buy at profitable prices the productions of old England—what does England propose to do with her millions of non-food-producing workmen? She demands free trade; says we are fools for not opening our ports and accepting with effusion the blessings of cheap goods she would so willingly send us? She does not quite like to open our ports, as she did those of China, nor does she incline at present to carry into France the civilizing influences of her cheap looms at the point of the bayonet. She must answer the question, not I.

And in New England—if that "West," with its fertile fields and its surplus food, will go to making cheap shoes and cheap cotton, and will not see how much happier she would be if she would only make corn and pork and swap them with New England for shoes and cotton—what will New England, what will Massachusetts do with her 507,034 workers who do not produce their own food? This is rather a vital question to those men and women who have no food. It is rather vital too to the capital invested in mills and machines in Lowell and elsewhere.

I come back now to my first proposition for the cure of the ills of life—cheap labor.

If trade be the true god, let us worship him; if to buy cheap and sell dear be the true gospel, let us extend that; if to convert men and women into tenders to machines be really the perfection of human nature, let us import the wild African and the heathen Chinee rapidly, largely, for nothing can be cheaper than they. Let us get ready our ships; let us open the ports of Dahomey, and Congo, and Canton, and Shanghai; let us exchange whiskey and tobacco for able-bodied men and women; let us fill this land with the black men and the copper men; let us perfect our civilization, for those men and those women can live cheap and work cheap; and if white men and white women do go to the wall—why should they not?

I reply, Does not our civilization demand cheap cotton and not great men and women? Clearly it does.

Does it not demand that "Trade" shall be god, and the laws of supply and demand shall rule? Clearly it does.

And is not all this leading us directly to—Heaven or to Hell? Clearly they are.

Two mighty silences, two worlds unseen

Over against each other lie:

For ever boundlessly apart have been,

For ever nigh.

In one is God Himself, and angels bright

Do congregate, and spirits fair;

And, lost in depths of mystic light,

Our Dead dwell there.

All things that cannot fade, nor fall, nor die,

Voices beloved, and precious things foregone,

Float up and up, and in that silence high,

With God grow one.

No barren silence, nay, but such as over

Lips that we love its spell may fling,

Where tender words like nested swallows hover,

Ere they take wing.

Sometimes from that far land there comes a breeze,

Soft airs surprise us on our way,

As dew-drops from above; then on our knees

We fall and pray.

And oft in some low crimson coast of cloud

We deem we see its far-off strand:

Our hearts, like shipwrecked sailors, cry aloud,

"The Land! the Land!"

And side by side that other world unknown,

Drenched in unbroken silence lies,

World of ourselves, where each one lives alone,

And lonely dies.

With our unuttered griefs, our joys untold,

Our multitudinous thoughts swift throng,

We dwell; one silence them and us doth fold

All our life long.

Out from those depths there comes a cry of pain.

Ah, pitifully, Lord, it calls,

"Behold the sorrows of our hearts!" and then—

A silence falls.

Nought but the narrow strip doth lie between

Of sounding surf that men call life;

Yet none can pass between those worlds unseen,

And end the strife.

Die down, die down, O thou tormented sea!

Suffer my silent world to fill

With voices from that land which cry to me,

"We love thee still."

In vain: I hear them not! but o'er my loss

Comes an apocalyptic voice,

"There shall be no more sea, and thou canst cross."

Rejoice! rejoice!

They found her over there. "This is more than I expected," said Carrington as they landed—"seven pairs of Spanish eyes at once."

"Three pairs," answered Keith, fastening the statement to fact and the boat to a rock in his calm way; "and one if not two of the pairs are Minorcan."

The two friends crossed the broad white beach toward the little stone house of the light-keeper, who sat in the doorway, having spent the morning watching their sail cross over from Pelican reef, tacking lazily east and west—an event of more than enough importance in his isolated life to have kept him there, gazing and contented, all day. Behind the broad shoulders of swarthy Pedro stood a little figure clothed in black; and as the man lifted himself lazily at last and came down to meet them, and his wife stepped briskly forward, they saw that the third person was a nun—a large-eyed, fragile little creature, promptly introduced by Melvyna, the keeper's wife, as "Sister St. Luke." For the keeper's wife, in spite of her black eyes, was not a Minorcan at all; not even a southerner. Melvyna Sawyer was born in Vermont, and, by one of the strange chances of this vast, many-raced, motley country of ours, she had travelled south as nurse, and a very good, energetic nurse too, albeit somewhat sharp-voiced, to a delicate young wife, who had died in the sunny land, as so many of them die; the sun, with all his good will and with all his shining, not being able to undo in three months the work of long years of the snows and the bleak east winds of New England.

The lady dead, and her poor thin frame sent northward again to lie in the hillside churchyard by the side of bleak Puritan ancestors, Melvyna looked about her. She hated the lazy tropical land, and had packed her calf-skin trunk to go, when Pedro Gonsalvez surprised her by proposing matrimony. At least that is what she wrote to her Aunt Clemanthy, away up in Vermont; and although Pedro may not have used the words, he at least meant the fact, for they were married two weeks later by a justice of the peace, whom Melvyna's sharp eyes had unearthed, she of course deeming the padre of the little parish and one or two attendant priests as so much dust to be trampled energetically under her shoes, Protestant and number six and a half double-soled mediums. The justice of the peace, a good natured old gentleman who had forgotten that he held the office at all, since there was no demand for justice and the peace was never broken in the small lazy village, married them as well as he could in a surprised sort of a way, and instead of receiving a fee gave one, which Melvyna, however, promptly rescued from the bridegroom's willing hand, and returned with the remark that there was no "call for alms" (pronounced as if it rhymed with hams), and that two shilling, or mebbe three, she guessed, would be about right for the job. This sum she deposited on the table, and then took leave, walking off with a quick, enterprising step, followed by her acquiescent and admiring bridegroom. He had remained acquiescent and admiring ever since, and now, as light-house keeper on Pelican island, he admired and acquiesced more than ever; while Melvyna kept the house in order, cooked his dinners, and tended his light, which, although only third class, shone and glittered under her daily care in the old square tower which was founded by the Spaniards, heightened by the English, and now finished and owned by the United States, whose light-house board said to each other every now and then that really they must put a first-class Fresnal on Pelican island and a good substantial tower instead of that old-fashioned beacon. They did so a year or two later; and a hideous barber's pole it remains to the present day. But when Carrington and Keith landed there the square tower still stood in its gray old age, at the very edge of the ocean, so that high tides swept the step of the keeper's house. It was originally a lookout where the Spanish soldier stood and fired his culverin when a vessel came in sight outside the reef; then the British occupied the land, added a story, and placed an iron grating on the top, where their coastguardsman lighted a fire of pitch-pine knots that flared up against the sky, with the tidings, "A sail! a sail!" Finally the United States came into possession, ran up a third story, and put in a revolving light, one flash for the land and two for the sea, a proportion unnecessarily generous now to the land, since nothing came in any more, and everything went by, the little harbor being of no importance since the indigo culture had failed. But ships still sailed by on their way to the Queen of the Antilles, and to the far Windward and Leeward islands, and the old light went on revolving, presumably for their benefit. The tower, gray and crumbling, and the keeper's house, were surrounded by a high stone wall with angles and loopholes—a small but regularly planned defensive fortification built by the Spaniards; and odd enough it looked there on that peaceful island, where there was nothing to defend. But it bore itself stoutly nevertheless, this ancient little fortress, and kept a sharp lookout still over the ocean for the damnable Huguenot sail of two centuries before.

The sea had encroached greatly on Pelican island, and sooner or later it must sweep the keeper's house away; but now it was a not unpleasant sensation to hear the water wash against the step—to sit at the narrow little windows and watch the sea roll up, roll up, nearer and nearer, coming all the way landless in long surges from the distant African coast only to never quite get at the foundations of that stubborn little dwelling, which held its own against them, and then triumphantly watched them roll back, roll back, departing inch by inch down the beach, until, behold! there was a magnificent parade-ground, broad enough for a thousand feet to tread—a floor more fresh and beautiful than the marble pavements of palaces. There were not a thousand feet to tread there, however; only six. For Melvyna had more than enough to do within the house, and Pedro never walked save across the island to the inlet once in two weeks or so, where he managed to row over to the village, and return with supplies, by taking two entire days for it, even Melvyna having given up the point, tacitly submitting to loitering she could not prevent, but recompensing herself by a general cleaning on those days of the entire premises, from the top of the lantern in the tower to the last step in front of the house.

You could not argue with Pedro. He only smiled back upon you as sweetly and as softly as molasses. Melvyna, endeavoring to urge him to energy, found herself in the position of an active ant wading through the downy recesses of a feather bed, which well represented his mind.

Pedro was six feet, two inches in height, and amiable as a dove. His wife sensibly accepted him as he was, and he had his two days in town—a very mild dissipation, however, since the Minorcans are too indolent to do anything more than smoke, lie in the sun, and eat salads heavily dressed in oil. They said, "The serene and august wife of our friend is well, we trust?" And, "The island—does it not remain lonely?" And then the salad was pressed upon him again. For they all considered Pedro a man of strange and varied experiences. Had he not married a woman of wonder—of an energy unfathomable? And he lived with her alone in a light-house, on an island; alone, mind you, without a friend or relation near!

The six feet that walked over the beautiful beach of the southern ocean were those of Keith, Carrington, and Sister St. Luke.

"Now go, Miss Luke," Melvyna had said, waving her energetically away with the skimmer as she stood irresolute at the kitchen door. "'Twill do you a power of good, and they're nice, quiet gentlemen who will see to you, and make things pleasant. Bless you, I know what they are. They ain't none of the miserable, good-for-nothing race about here! Your convent is fifty miles off, ain't it? And besides, you were brought over here half dead for me to cure up—now, warn't you?"

"You see, things is different up north, and I understand 'em, but you don't. Now you jest go right along and hev a pleasant walk, and I'll hev a nice bowl of venison broth ready for you when you come back. Go right along now." The skimmer waved again, and the Sister went.

"Yes, she's taken the veil, and is a nun for good and all," explained Melvyna to her new guests the evening of their arrival, when the shy little Sister had retreated to her own room above. "They thought she was dying, and she was so long about it, and useless on their hands, that they sent her up here to the village for sea air, and to be red of her, I guess. 'T any rate, there she was in one of them crowded, dirty old houses, and so—I jest brought her over here. To tell the truth, gentlemen—the real bottom of it—my baby died last year—and—and Miss Luke she was so good I'll never forget it. I ain't a Catholic—fur from it; I hate 'em. But she seen us coming up from the boat with our little coffin, and she came out and brought flowers to lay on it, and followed to the grave, feeble as she was; and she even put in her little black shawl, because the sand was wet—this miserable half-afloat land, you know—and I couldn't abear to see the coffin set down into it. And I said to myself then that I'd never hate a Catholic again, gentlemen. I don't love 'em yet, and don't know as I ever shell; but Miss Luke, she's different. Consumption? Well, I hardly know. She's a sight better than she was when she come. I'd like to make her well again, and, someway, I can't help a-trying to, for I was a nurse by trade once. But then what's the use? She'll only hev to go back to that old convent!" And Melvyna clashed her pans together in her vexation. "Is she a good Catholic, do you say? Heavens and earth, yes! She's that religious—my! I couldn't begin to tell! She believes every word of all that rubbish those old nuns have told her. She thinks it's beautiful to be the bride of heaven; and, as far as that goes, I don't know but she's right: 'tain't much the other kind is wuth," pursued Melvyna, with fine contempt for mankind in general. "As to freedom, they've as good as shoved her off their hands, haven't they? And I guess I can do as I like any way on my own island. There wasn't any man about their old convent, as I can learn, and so Miss Luke, she hain't been taught to run away from 'em like most nuns. Of course, if they knew, they would be sending over here after her: but they don't know, and them priests in the village are too fat and lazy to earn their salt, let alone caring what has become of her. I guess, if they think of her at all, they think that she died, and that they buried her in their crowded, sunken old graveyard. They're so slow and sleepy that they forget half the time who they're burying! But Miss Luke, she ought to go out in the air, and she is so afraid of everything that it don't do her no good to go alone. I haven't got the time to go; and so, if you will let her walk along the beach with you once in a while, it will do her a sight of good, and give her an appetite—although what I want her to hev an appetite for I am sure I don't know; for ef she gets well, of course she'll go back to the convent. Want to go? That she does. She loves the place, and feels lost and strange anywhere else. She was taken there when she was a baby, and it is all the home she has. She doesn't know they wanted to be red of her, and she wouldn't believe it ef I was to tell her forty times. She loves them all dearly, and prays every day to go back there. Spanish? Yes, I suppose so; she don't know herself what she is exactly. She speaks English well though, don't she? Yes, Sister St. Luke is her name; and a heathenish name it is for a woman, in my opinion. I call her Miss Luke. Convert her? Couldn't any more convert her than you could convert a white gull, and make a land bird of him. It's his nature to ride on the water and be wet all the time. Towels couldn't dry him—not if you fetched a thousand!"

"Our good hostess is a woman of discrimination, and sorely perplexed, therefore, over her protégée," said Keith, as the two young men sought their room, a loft under the peaked roof, which was to be their abode for some weeks, when they were not afloat. "As a nurse she feels a professional pride in curing, while as a Calvinist she would almost rather kill than cure, if her patient is to go back to the popish convent. But the little Sister looks very fragile. She will probably save trouble all round by fading away."

The two friends, or rather companions, plunged into all the phases of the southern ocean with a broad, inhaling, expanding delight which only a superb natural or an exquisitely cultured physique can feel. George Carrington was a vigorous young Saxon, tall and broad to a remarkable degree, feeling his life and strength in every vein and muscle. Each night he slept his eight hours dreamlessly, like a child, and each day he lived four hours in one, counting by the pallid hours of other men. Andrew Keith, on the other hand, represented the physique cultured and trained up to a high point by years of attention and care. He was a slight man, rather undersized, but his wiry strength was more than a match for Carrington's bulk, and his finely cut face, if you would but study it, stood out like a cameo by the side of a ruddy miniature painted in oils. The trouble is that but few people study cameos. He was older than his companion, and "One of those quiet fellows, you know," said the world. The two had never done or been anything remarkable in all their lives. Keith had a little money, and lived as he pleased, while Carrington, off now on a vacation, was junior member of a firm in which family influence had placed him. Both were city men.

"You absolutely do not know how to walk, señora," said Keith. "I will be doctor now, and you must obey me. Never mind the crabs, and never mind the jelly fish, but throw back your head and walk off briskly. Let the wind blow in your face, and try to stand more erect."

"You are doctor? They told me, could I but see one, well would I be," said the Sister. "At the convent we have only Sister Inez, with her small and old medicines."

"Yes, I think I may call myself doctor," answered Keith gravely. "What do you say, Carrington?"

"Knows no end, Miss, Miss—Miss Luke—I should say, Miss St. Luke. I am sure I do not know why I should stumble over it when St. John is a common enough name," answered Carrington, who generally did his thinking aloud.

"No end?" repeated the little Sister inquiringly. "But there is an end in this evil world to all things."

"Never mind what he says, señora," interrupted Keith, "but step out strongly and firmly, and throw back your head. There now, there are no crabs in sight, and the beach is hard as a floor. Try it with me: one, two; one, two."

So they treated her, partly as a child, partly as a gentle being of an inferior race. It was a new amusement, although rather a mild one, Carrington said, to instruct this unformed, timid mind, to open the blinded eyes, and train the ignorant ears to listen to the melodies of nature.

"Do you not hear? It is like the roll of a grand organ," said Keith as they sat on the doorstep one evening at sunset. The sky was dark; the wind had blown all day from the north to the south, and frightened the little Sister as she toiled at her lace work, made on a cushion in the Spanish fashion, her lips mechanically repeating prayers meanwhile; for never had they such winds at the inland convent, embowered in its orange trees. Now, as the deep, low roll of the waves sounded on the shore, Keith, who was listening to it with silent enjoyment, happened to look up and catch the pale, repressed nervousness of her face.

"Oh, not like an organ," she murmured. "This is a fearful sound; but an organ is sweet—soft and sweet. When Sister Teresa plays the evening hymn it is like the sighing of angels."

"We have not thought it small. It remains in our chapel, by the window of arches, and below we walk, at the hour of meditation, from the lime tree to the white rose bush, and back again, while the music sounds above. We have not thought it small, but large—yes, very large."

"Four feet long probably," said Carrington, who was smoking an evening pipe, now listening to the talk awhile, now watching the movements of two white heron who were promenading down the beach. "I saw the one over in the village church. It was about as long as this step."

"Yes," said the Sister, surveying the step, "it is about as long as that. It is a very large organ."

The docile little Sister obeyed; she always did immediately whatever they told her to do.

"I want you to listen now; stand still and listen—listen to the sea," said Keith, when they had turned the point and stood alone on the shore. "Try to think only of the pure, deep, blue water, and count how regularly the sound rolls up in long, low chords, dying away and then growing louder, dying away and then growing louder, as regular as your own breath. Do you not hear it?"

"Keep time, then, with your hand, and let me see whether you catch the measure."

So the small brown hand, nerveless and slender, tried to mark and measure the roar of the great ocean surges, and at last succeeded, urged on by the alternate praises and rebukes of Keith, who watched with some interest a faint color rise in the pale, oval face, and an intent listening look come into the soft, unconscious eyes, as, for the first time, the mind caught the mighty rhythm of the sea. She listened, and listened, standing mute, with head slightly bent and parted lips.

"I want you to listen to it that way every day," said Keith, as he led the way back. "It has different voices: sometimes a fresh, joyous song, sometimes a faint, loving whisper; but always something. You will learn in time to love it, and then it will sing to you all day long."

"Oh, could I go? Could I go?" said the Sister, not impatiently, but with an intense yearning in her low voice. "Here, so lost, so strange am I, so wild is everything—— But I must not murmur"; and she crossed her hands upon her breast and bowed her head.

The young men led a riotous life; they rioted with the ocean, with the winds, with the level island, with the sunshine and the racing clouds. They sailed over to the reef daily and plunged into the surf; they walked for miles along the beach, and ran races over its white floor; they hunted down the centre of the island, and brought back the little brown deer who lived in the low thicket on each side of the island's backbone. The island was twenty miles long, and a mile or two broad, with a central ridge of shell-formed rock about twenty feet in height, that seemed like an Appalachian chain on the level waste; below, in the little hollows on each side, spread a low tangled thicket, a few yards wide; and all the rest was barren sand, with moveable hills here and there—hills a few feet in height, blown up by the wind, and changed in a night. The only vegetation besides the thicket was a rope-like vine that crept over the sand, with few leaves far apart, and now and then a dull purple blossom, a solitary tenacious vine of the desert, satisfied with little, its growth slow, its life monotonous; yet try to tear it from the surface of the sand, where its barren length seems to lie loosely like an old brown rope thrown down at random, and behold, it resists you stubbornly. You find a mile or two of it on your hands, clinging and pulling as the strong ivy clings to a stone wall; a giant could not conquer it, this seemingly dull and half dead thing; and so you leave it there to creep on in its own way over the damp, shell-strewn waste. One day Carrington came home in great glory; he had found a salt marsh. "Something besides this sand, you know—a stretch of saw-grass away to the south, the very place for fat ducks. And somebody has been there before us, too, for I saw the mast of a sailboat some distance down, tipped up against the sky."

"That old boat is ourn, I guess," said Melvyna. "She drifted down there one high tide, and Pedro he never would go for her. She was a mighty nice little boat, too, ef she was cranky."

Pedro smiled amiably back upon his spouse, and helped himself to another hemisphere of pie. He liked the pies, although she was obliged to make them, she said, of such outlandish things as figs, dried oranges, and pomegranates. "If you could only see a pumpkin, Pedro," she often remarked, shaking her head. Pedro shook his back in sympathy; but, in the mean time, found the pies very good as they were.

"Let us go down after the boat," said Carrington. "You have only that old tub over at the inlet. Pedro and you really need another boat" (Carrington always liked to imagine that he was a constant and profound help to the world at large). "Suppose anything should happen to the one you have." Pedro had not thought of that; he slowly put down his knife and fork to consider the subject.

"We will go this afternoon," said Keith, issuing his orders, "and you shall go with us, señora."

"And Pedro, too, to help you," said Melvyna. "I've always wanted that boat back, she was such a pretty little thing: one sail, you know, and decked over in front; you sat on the bottom. I'd like right well to go along myself; but I suppose I'd better stay at home and cook a nice supper for you."

When the February sun had stopped blazing down directly overhead, and a few white afternoon clouds had floated over from the east to shade his shining, so that man could bear it, the four started inland toward the backbone ridge, on whose summit there ran an old trail southward, made by the fierce Creeks three centuries before. Right up into the dazzling light soared the great eagles—straight up, up to the sun; their unshrinking eyes fearlessly fixed full on his fiery ball.

"It would be grander if we did not know they had just stolen their dinners from the poor hungry fish-hawks over there on the inlet," said Carrington.

Sister St. Luke had learned to walk quite rapidly now. Her little black gown trailed lightly along the sand behind her, and she did her best to "step out boldly," as Keith directed; but it was not firmly, for she only succeeded in making a series of quick, uncertain little paces over the sand-like bird tracks. Once Keith had taken her back and made her look at her own uneven footsteps. "Look—no two the same distance apart," he said. The little Sister looked and was very much mortified. "Indeed, I will try with might to do better," she said. And she did try with might; they saw her counting noiselessly to herself as she walked, "One, two; one, two." But she had improved so much that Keith now devoted his energies to teaching her to throw back her head, and look about her. "Do you not see those soft banks of clouds piled up in the west?" he said, constantly directing her attention to objects above her. But this was a harder task, for the timid eyes had been trained from childhood to look down, and the head was habitually bent, like a pendant flower on its stem. Melvyna had deliberately laid hands upon the heavy veil and white band that formerly encircled the small face. "You cannot breathe in them," she said. But the Sister still wore a light veil over the short dark hair, which would curl in little rings upon her temples in spite of her efforts to prevent it; the cord and heavy beads and cross encircled her slight waist, while the wide sleeves of her nun's garb fell over her hands to the finger tips.

"How do you suppose she would look dressed like other women?" said Carrington one day. The two men were drifting in their small yacht, lying at ease on the cushions, and smoking.

"Well," answered Keith slowly, "if she was well dressed—very well I mean, say in the French style—and if she had any spirit of her own, any vivacity, you might, with that dark face of hers and those eyes—you might call her piquant."

"Spirit? She has not the spirit of a fly," said Carrington, knocking the ashes out of his pipe and fumbling in an embroidered velvet pouch, one of many offerings at his shrine, for a fresh supply of the strong aromatic tobacco he affected, Keith meanwhile smoking nothing but the most delicate cigarettes. "The other day I heard a wild scream; and rushing down stairs I found her half fainting on the steps, all in a little heap. And what do you think it was? She had been sitting there, lost in a dream—mystic, I suppose, like St. Agnes—

Deep on the convent roof the snows

Are sparkling to the moon:

My breath to heaven like vapor goes.

May my soul follow soon—

"No," said Keith, "there is nothing mystical about the Luke maiden; she has never even dreamed of the ideal ecstasies of deeper minds. She says her little prayers simply, almost mechanically, so many every day, and dwells as it were content in the lowly valleys of religion."

"Well, whatever she was doing," continued Carrington, "a great sea crab had crawled up and taken hold of the toe of her little shoe. Grand tableau—crab and Luke maiden! And the crab had decidedly the better of it."

And absurdly timid she was now, when, having crossed the stretch of sand and wound in and out among the low hillocks, they came to the hollow where grew the dark green thicket, through which they must pass to reach the Appalachian range, the backbone of the island, where the trail gave them an easier way than over the sands. Carrington went first and hacked out a path with his knife; Keith followed, and held back the branches; the whole distance was not more than twelve feet; but its recesses looked dark and shadowy to the little Sister, and she hesitated.

"There is nothing dangerous here, señora," said Keith. "Look, you can see for yourself. And there are three of us to help you."

"I know not indeed," she answered, almost in tears over her own behavior, yet unable to stir. Keith came back, and saw that she was trembling—not violently, but in a subdued, helpless sort of a way which was pathetic in its very causelessness.

"Take her up, Pedro," he ordered; and before she could object, the good-natured giant had borne her in three strides through the dreaded region, and set her down safely upon the ridge. She followed them humbly now, along the safe path, trying to step firmly, and walk with her head up, as Keith had directed. Carrington had already forgotten her again, and even Keith was eagerly looking ahead for the first glimpse of green.

"There is something singularly fascinating in the stretch of a salt marsh," he said. "Its level has such a far sweep as you stand and gaze across it, and you have a dreamy feeling that there is no end to it. The stiff drenched grasses hold the salt which the tide brings in twice a day, and you inhale that fresh, strong, briny odor, the rank, salt, invigorating smell of the sea; the breeze that blows across has a tang to it like the snap of a whip lash across your face, bringing the blood to the surface, and rousing you to a quicker pace."

"Ha!" said Carrington; "there it is. Don't you see the green? A little further on, you will see the mast of the boat."

"That is all that is wanted," said Keith. "A salt marsh is not complete without a boat tilted up aground somewhere, with its slender dark mast outlined against the sky. A boat sailing along in a commonplace way would blight the whole thing; what we want is an abandoned craft, aged and deserted, aground down the marsh with only its mast rising above the green."

"Bien! there it is," said Carrington; "and now the question is, how to get to it."

"You two giants will have to go alone," said Keith, finding a comfortable seat. "I see a mile or two of tall wading before us, and up to your shoulders is over my head. I went duck-shooting with that man last year, señora. 'Come on,' he cried—'splendid sport ahead, old fellow; come on.'

"'Is it deep?' I asked from behind. I was already up to my knees, and could not see bottom, the water was so dark.

"You know Carrington is taller than I am," explained Keith, amused by the novelty of seeing his own stories fall flat in dead failure.

Carrington stopped short, and for an instant stared blankly at her. What every one noticed and admired all over the country wherever he went, this little silent creature had not even seen!

"He will never forgive you," said Keith laughing, as the two tall forms strode off into the marsh. Then, seeing that she did not comprehend in the least, he made a seat for her by spreading his light coat on the Appalachian chain, and leaning back on his elbow, began talking to her about the marsh. "Breathe in the strong salt," he said, "and let your eyes rest on the green, reedy waste. Supposing you were painting a picture, now—does any one paint pictures at your convent?"

"Ah, yes," said the little nun, rousing to animation at once. "Sister St. James paints pictures the most beautiful on earth. She painted for us Santa Inez with her lamb, and Santa Rufina of Sevilla, with her palms and earthen vases."

"Me! Oh, no. I am only a Sister, young and of no gifts. Sister St. James is a great saint, and of age she has seventy years."

"Not requisites for painting, either of them, that I am aware," said Keith. "However, if you were painting this marsh, do you not see how the mast of that boat makes the feature of the landscape the one human element; and yet, even that abandoned, merged as it were in the desolate wildness of the scene?"

The Sister looked over the green earnestly, as if trying to see all that he suggested, Keith talked on. He knew that he talked well, and he did not confuse her with more than one subject, but dwelt upon the marsh: stories of men who had been lost in them, of women who had floated down in boats and never returned; descriptions clear as etchings; studies of the monotone of hues before them—one subject pictured over and over again, as, wishing to instruct a child, he would have drawn with a chalk one letter of the alphabet a hundred times, until the wandering eyes had learned at last to recognize and know it. "Do you see nothing at all, feel nothing at all?" he said. "Tell me exactly."

Thus urged, the Sister replied that she thought she did feel the salt breeze a little.

"Then take off that shroud and enjoy it," said Keith, extending his arm suddenly, and sweeping off the long veil by the corner that was nearest to him.

"Oh!" said the little Sister; "oh!" and distressfully she covered her head with her hands, as if trying to shield herself from the terrible light of day. But the veil had gone down into the thicket, whither she dared not follow. She stood irresolute.

"I will get it for you before the others come back," said Keith. "It is gone now, however, and what is more, you could not help it; so sit down, like a sensible creature, and enjoy the breeze."

The little nun sat down, and confusedly tried to be a sensible creature. Her head, with its short rings of dark hair, rose childlike from the black gown she wore, and the breeze swept freshly over her; but her eyes were full of tears, and her face so pleading in its pale, silent distress, that at length Keith went down and brought back the veil.

"See the cranes flying home," he said, as the long line dotted the red of the west. "They always seem to be flying right into the sunset, sensible birds."

The little Sister had heard that word twice now; evidently the cranes were more sensible than she. She sighed as she fastened on the veil; there were a great many hard things out in the world, then, she thought. At the dear convent it was not expected that one should be as a crane.

The other two came back at length, wet and triumphant, with their prize. They had stopped to bail it out, plug its cracks, mend the old sail after a fashion, and nothing would do but that the three should sail home in it; Pedro, for whom there was no room, returning by the way they had come. Carrington, having worked hard, was determined to carry out his plan; and said so.

"You go down there and work an hour or two yourself, and see how you like it," answered the other, with the irrelevance produced by aching muscles and perspiration dripping from every pore.

This conversation had taken place at the edge of the marsh where they had brought the boat up through one of the numerous channels.

"Very well," said Keith. "But mind you, not a word about danger before the Sister. I shall have hard enough work to persuade her to come with us as it is."

He went back to the ridge, and carelessly suggested returning home by water. "You will not have to go through the thicket then," he said.

Somewhat to his surprise, Sister St. Luke consented immediately, and followed without a word as he led the way. She was mortally afraid of the water, but, during his absence, she had been telling her beads, and thinking with contrition of two obstinacies in one day: that of the thicket and that of the veil; she could not, she would not have three. So, commending herself to all the saints, she embarked.

"Look here, Carrington, if ever you inveigle me into such danger again for a mere fool's fancy, I will show you what I think of it. You knew the condition of that boat, and I did not," said Keith sternly as the two men stood at last on the beach in front of the light-house. The Sister had gone within, glad to feel land underfoot once more. She had sat quietly in her place all the way, afraid of the water, of the wind, of everything, but entirely unconscious of the real danger that menaced them. For the little craft would not mind her helm; her mast slipped about erratically; the planking at the bow seemed about to give way altogether; and they were on a lee shore, with the tide coming in, and the surf beating roughly on the beach. They were both good sailors, but it had taken all they knew to bring the boat safely to the lighthouse.

"To tell the truth, I did not think she was so crippled," said Carrington. "She really is a good boat for her size."

But the younger man clung to his opinion; and in order to verify it, he set himself to work repairing the little craft. You would have supposed his daily bread depended upon her being made seaworthy by the way he labored. She was made over from stem to stern: a new mast, a new sail; and, finally, scarlet and green paint were brought over from the village, and out she came as brilliant as a young paroquet. Then Carrington took to sailing in her. Proud of his handy work, he sailed up and down, over to the reef, and up the inlet, and even persuaded Melvyna to go with him once, accompanied by the meek little Sister.

"Why shouldn't you both learn how to manage her?" he said in his enthusiasm. "She's as easy to manage as a child——"

"And as easy to tip over," replied Melvyna, screwing up her lips tightly and shaking her head. "You don't catch me out in her again, sure as my name's Sawyer."

For Melvyna always remained a Sawyer in her own mind, in spite of her spouse's name; she could not, indeed, be anything else—noblesse oblige. But the Sister, obedient as usual, bent her eyes in turn upon the ropes, the mast, the sail, and the helm, while Carrington, waxing eloquent over his favorite science, delivered a lecture upon their uses and made her experiment a little to see if she comprehended. He used the simplest words for her benefit, words of one syllable, and unconsciously elevated his voice somewhat, as though that would make her understand better; her wits seemed to him always of the slowest. The Sister followed his directions and imitated his motions with painstaking minuteness. She did very well until a large porpoise rolled up his dark, glistening back close alongside, when, dropping the sail-rope with a scream, she crouched down at Melvyna's feet and hid her face in her veil. Carrington from that day could get no more passengers for his paroquet boat. But he sailed up and down alone in his little craft, and when that amusement palled he took the remainder of the scarlet and green paint and adorned the shells of various sea-crabs and other crawling things, so that the little Sister was met one afternoon by a whole procession of unearthly creatures, strangely variegated, proceeding gravely in single file down the beach from the pen where they had been confined. Keith pointed out to her, however, the probability of their being much admired in their own circles as long as the hues lasted, and she was comforted.

They strolled down the beach now every afternoon, sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes four when Melvyna had no cooking to watch, no bread to bake; for she rejected with scorn the omnipresent hot biscuit of the South, and kept her household supplied with light loaves in spite of the difficulties of yeast. Sister St. Luke had learned to endure the crabs, but she still fled from the fiddlers when they strayed over from their towns in the marsh; she still went carefully around the great jelly fish sprawling on the beach, and regarded from a safe distance the beautiful blue Portuguese men-of-war, stranded unexpectedly on the dangerous shore, all their fair voyagings over. Keith collected for her the brilliant sea-weeds, little flecks of color on the white sand, and showed her their beauties; he made her notice all the varieties of shells, enormous conches for the tritons to blow, and beds of wee pink ovals and cornucopias, plates and cups for the little web-footed fairies. Once he came upon a sea bean.

"It has drifted over from one of the West Indian islands," he said, polishing it with his handkerchief—"one of the islands—let us say Miraprovos—a palmy tropical name, bringing up visions of a volcanic mountain, vast cliffs, a tangled gorgeous forest, and the soft lapping wash of tropical seas. Is it not so, señora?"

But the señora had never heard of the West Indian islands. Being told, she replied, "As you say it, it is so. There is, then, much land in the world?"

"If you keep the sea bean for ever, good will come," said Keith, gravely presenting it; "but if after having once accepted it, you then lose it, evil will fall upon you."

The Sister received the amulet with believing reverence. "I will lay it up before the shrine of Our Lady," she said, carefully placing it in the little pocket over her heart, hidden among the folds of her gown, where she kept her most precious treasures—a bead of a rosary that had belonged to some saint who lived somewhere some time, a little faded prayer copied in the handwriting of a young nun who had died some years before and whom she had dearly loved, and a list of her own most vicious faults, to be read over and lamented daily; crying evils such as a perverse and insubordinate bearing, a heart froward and evil, gluttonous desires of the flesh, and a spirit of murderous rage. These were her own ideas of herself, written down at the convent. Had she not behaved herself perversely to the Sister Paula, with whom one should be always mild on account of the affliction which had sharpened her tongue? Had she not wrongfully coveted the cell of the novice Felipa, because it looked out upon the orange walk? Had she not gluttonously longed for more of the delectable marmalade made by the aged Sanchita? And worse than all, had she not, in a spirit of murderous rage, beat the yellow cat with a palm branch for carrying off the young doves, her especial charge? "Ah, my sins are great indeed," she sighed daily upon her knees, and smote her breast with tears.

Keith watched the sea bean go into the little heart-pocket almost with compunction. Many of these amulets of the sea, gathered during his winter rambles, had he bestowed with formal warning of their magic powers, and many a fair hand had taken them, many a soft voice had promised to keep them "for ever." But he well knew they would be mislaid and forgotten in a day. The fair ones well knew it too, and each knew that the other knew, so no harm was done. But this sea bean, he thought, would have a different fate—laid up in some little nook before the shrine, a witness to the daily prayers of the simple-hearted little Sister. "I hope they may do it good," he thought vaguely. Then, reflecting that even the most depraved bean would not probably be much affected by the prayers, he laughed off the fancy, yet did not quite like to think, after all, that the prayers were of no use. Keith's religion, however, was in the primary rocks.

Far down the beach they came upon a wreck, an old and long hidden relic of the past. The low sand-bluff had caved away suddenly and left a clean new side, where, imbedded in the lower part, they saw a ponderous mast. "An old Spanish galleon," said Keith, stooping to examine the remains. "I know it by the curious bolts. They ran ashore here, broadside on, in one of those sudden tornadoes they have along this coast once in a while, I presume. Singular! This was my very place for lying in the sun and letting the blaze scorch me with its clear scintillant splendor. I never imagined I was lying on the bones of this old Spaniard."

"God rest the souls of the sailors," said the Sister, making the sign of the cross.

"They have been in—wherever they are, let us say, for about three centuries now," observed Keith, "and must be used to it, good or bad."

One morning there came up a dense, soft, southern-sea fog, "The kind you can cut with a knife," Carrington said. It lasted for days, sweeping out to sea at night on the land breeze, and lying in a gray bank low down on the horizon, and then rolling in again in the morning enveloping the water and the island in a thick white cloud which was not mist and did not seem damp even, so freshly, softly salt was the feeling it gave to the faces that went abroad in it. Carrington and Keith, of course, must needs be out in it every moment of the time. They walked down the beach for miles in the fog, hearing the muffled sound of the near waves, but not seeing them. They sailed in the fog, not knowing whither they went, and they drifted out at sunset and watched the land breeze lift it, roll it up, and carry it out to sea, where distant ships on the horizon line, bound southward, and nearer ones, sailing northward with the Gulf stream, found themselves enveloped for the night and bothered by their old and baffling foe. They went over to the reef every morning, these two, and bathed in the fog, coming back by sense of feeling, as it were, and landing not infrequently a mile below or above the light-house; then what appetites they had for breakfast. And if it was not ready, they roamed about roaring like young lions. At least that is what Melvyna said one morning when Carrington had put his curly head into her kitchen door six times in the course of one half hour.

The Sister shrank from the sea fog; she had never seen one before, and she said it was like a great soft white creature that came in on wings, and brooded over the earth. "Yes, beautiful, perhaps," she said in reply to Keith, "but it is so strange—and—and—I know not how to say it—but it seems like a place for spirits to walk, and not of the mortal kind."

They were wandering down the beach, where Keith had lured her to listen to the sound of the hidden waves. At that moment Carrington loomed into view coming toward them. He seemed of giant size as he appeared, passed them, and disappeared again into the cloud behind, his voice sounding muffled as he greeted them. The Sister shrank nearer to her companion as the figure had suddenly made itself visible. "Do you know it is a wonder to me how you have ever managed to live, so far?" said Keith smiling.

"But it was not far," said the little nun. "Nothing was ever far at the dear convent, but everything was near, and not of strangeness to make one afraid; the garden wall was the end. There we go not outside, but our walk is always from the lime tree to the white rosebush and back again. Everything we know there—not roar of waves, not strong wind, not the thick, white air comes to give us fear, but all is still and at peace. At night I dream of the organ, and of the orange trees, and of the doves. I wake, and hear only the sound of the great water below."

He had begun to pity her lately, for her longing was deeper than he had supposed. It had its roots in her very being. He had studied her and found it so.

"She will die of pure homesickness if she stays here much longer," he said to Carrington, "What do you think of our writing down to that old convent and offering—of course unknown to her—to pay the little she costs them, if they will take her back?"

He was making a larger sail for his paroquet boat. "If none of you will go out in her, I might as well have all the sport I can," he said.

"By no means, croaker. Sport to consist in shooting over the water like a rocket; I sitting on the tilted edge, watching the waves, the winds, and the clouds, and hearing the water sing as we rush along."

Keith took counsel with no one else, not even with Melvyna, but presently he wrote his letter and carried it himself over to the village to mail. He did good deeds like that once in a while, "to help humanity," he said; they were tangible always, like the primary rocks.

At length one evening the fog rolled out to sea for good and all, at least as far as the shore was concerned. In the morning there stood the light-house, and the island, and the reef, just the same as ever. Someway they had almost expected to see them altered or melted a little.

"Let us go over to the reef, all of us, and spend the day," said Keith. "It will do us good to breathe the clear air, and feel the brilliant, dry, hot sunshine again."

"Hear the man!" said Melvyna laughing. "After trying to persuade us all those days that he liked that sticky fog too!"

"Mme. Gonsalvez, we like a lily; but is that any reason why we may not also like a rose?"

Then Carrington put in his voice, and carried the day. Women never resisted Carrington long, but yielded almost unconsciously to the influence of his height, and his strength, and his strong, hearty will. A subtler influence over them, however, would have waked resistance, and Carrington himself would have been conquered far sooner (and was conquered later) by one who remained unswayed by those mere outer influences, to which the crowd of fair ones, however, paid involuntary obeisance.

Pedro had gone to the village for his supplies and his two days of mild Minorcan dissipation, and Melvyna, beguiled and cajoled by the chaffing of the two young men, at last consented, and not only packed the lunch-basket with careful hand, but even donned for the occasion her "best bonnet," a structure trimmed in Vermont seven years before by the experienced hand of Miss Althy Spears, the village milliner, who had adorned it with a durable green ribbon and a vigorous wreath of artificial flowers. Thus helmeted, Mme. Gonsalvez presided at the stern of the boat with great dignity. For they were in the safe well-appointed little yacht belonging to the two gentlemen, the daring paroquet having been left at home tied to the last of a low heap of rocks that jutted out into the water in front of the light-house, the only remains of the old stone dock built by the Spaniards long before. Sister St. Luke was with them of course, gentle and frightened as usual. Her breath came quickly as they neared the reef, and Carrington with a sure hand guided the little craft outside into the surf, and rounding a point, landed them safely in a miniature harbor he had noted there. Keith had counted the days, and felt sure that the answer from the convent would come soon. His offer—for he had made it his alone without Carrington's aid—had been munificent; there could be but one reply. The little Sister would soon go back to the lime tree, the white rosebush, the doves, the old organ that was "so large"—all the quiet routine of the life she loved so well; and they would see her small oval face and timid dark eyes no more for ever. So he took her for a last walk down the reef, while Melvyna made coffee, and Carrington, having noticed a dark line floating on the water, immediately went out in the boat, of course to see what it was.

The reef had its high backbone, like the island. Some day it would be the island with another reef outside, and the light-house beach would belong to the mainland. Down the stretch of sand toward the sea the pelicans stood in rows, toeing a mark, solemn and heavy, by the hundreds—a countless number—for the reef was their gathering place.

"They are holding a conclave," said Keith. "That old fellow has the floor. See him wag his head."

In and out among the pelicans, and paying no attention to them and their conclave, sped the sickle-bill curlews, actively probing everywhere with their long, grotesque, sickle-shaped bills; and woe be to the burrowing things that came in their way. The red-beaked oyster bird flew by, and close down to the sea skimmed the razor-bill shear-water, with his head bent forward and his feet tilted up, just grazing the water with his open bill as he flew, and leaving a shining mark behind, as though he held a pencil in his mouth and was running a line. The lazy gulls, who had no work to do, and would not have done it if they had, rode at ease on the little wavelets close in shore. The Sister, being asked, confessed that she liked the lazy gulls best. Being pressed to say why, she thought it was because they were more like the white doves that sat on the old stone well-curb in the convent garden.

Keith had always maintained that he liked to talk to women. He said that the talk of any woman was more piquant than the conversation of the most brilliant men. There was only one obstacle: the absolute inability of the sex to be sincere, or to tell the truth, for ten consecutive minutes. To-day, however, as he wandered to and fro whither he would on the reef, he also wandered to and fro whither he would in the mind, and the absolutely truthful mind too, of a woman. Yet he found it dull! He sighed to himself, but was obliged to acknowledge that it was dull. The lime tree, the organ, the Sisters, the Sisters, the lime tree, the organ; it grew monotonous after a while. Yet he held his post, for the sake of the old theory, until the high voice of Melvyna called them back to the little fire on the beach and the white cloth spread with her best dainties. They saw Carrington sailing in with an excited air, and presently he brought the boat into the cove and dragged ashore his prize, towed behind—nothing less than a large shark, wounded, dead, after a struggle with some other marine monster, a sword fish probably. "A man-eater," announced the captor. "Look at him, will you? Look at him, Miss Luke!"

But Miss Luke went far away, and would not look. In truth he was an ugly creature; even Melvyna kept at a safe distance. But the two men noted all his points; they measured him carefully; they turned him over, and discussed him generally in that closely confined and exhaustive way which marks the masculine mind. Set two women to discussing a shark, or even the most lovely little brook trout, if you please, and see how far off they will be in fifteen minutes!

But the lunch was tempting, and finally its discussion called them away even from that of the shark. And then they all sailed homeward over the green and blue water, while the white sand hills shone silvery before them, and then turned red in the sunset. That night the moon was at its full. Keith went out and strolled up and down on the beach. Carrington was playing fox-and-goose with Mme. Gonsalvez on a board he had good-naturedly constructed for her entertainment when she confessed one day to a youthful fondness for that exciting game. Up stairs gleamed the little Sister's light. "Saying her prayers with her lips, but thinking all the time of that old convent," said the stroller to himself, half scornfully. And he said the truth.

The sea was still and radiant; hardly more than a ripple broke at his feet; the tide was out, and the broad beach silvery and fresh. "At home they are buried in snow," he thought, "and the wind, is whistling around their double windows." And then he stretched himself on the sand, and lay looking upward into the deep blue of the night, bathed in the moonlight, and listening dreamily to the soft sound of the water as it returned slowly, slowly back from the African coast. He thought many thoughts, and deep ones too, for his mind was of a high order; and at last he was so far away on ideal heights that, coming home after midnight, it was no wonder if, half unconsciously, he felt himself above the others; especially when he passed the little Sister's closed door, and thought, smiling not unkindly, how simple she was.

The next morning the two men went off in their boat again for the day, this time alone. There were still a few more questions to settle about that shark, and, to tell the truth, they both liked a good day of unencumbered sailing better than anything else.

About four o'clock in the afternoon Melvyna, happening to look out of the door, saw a cloud no bigger than a man's hand low down on the horizon line of the sea. Something made her stand and watch it for a few moments. Then, "Miss Luke! Miss Luke! Miss Luke! Miss Luke!" she called quickly. Down came the little Sister, startled at the cry, her lace work still in her hand.

The Sister looked, and this is what she saw: a line white as milk coming toward them on the water, and behind it a blackness.

"A tornader," said Melvyna with white lips. "I've only seen one, and then I was over in the town; but it's awful! We must run back to the thicket," Seizing her companion's arm, the strong Northern woman hurried her across the sand, through the belt of sand hills, and into the thicket, where they crouched on its far side close down under the protecting backbone. "The bushes will break the sand, and the ridge will keep us from being buried in it," she said. "I dursn't stay on the shore, for the water'll rise."

The words were hardly spoken before the tornado was upon them, and the air was filled with the flying sand, so that they could hardly breathe. Half choked, they beat with their hands before them to catch a breath. Then came a roar, and for an instant, distant as they were, they caught a glimpse of the crest of the great wave that followed the whirlwind. It seemed to them mountains high, and ready to engulf the entire land. With a rushing sound it plunged over the keeper's house, broke against the lower story of the tower, hissed across the sand, swallowed the sand hills, and swept to their very feet, then sullenly receded with slow, angry muttering. A gale of wind came next, singularly enough from another direction, as if to restore the equipoise of the atmosphere. But the tornado had gone on inland, where there were trees to uproot, and houses to destroy, and much finer entertainment generally.

As soon as they could speak, "Where are the two out in the sail boat?" asked the Sister.

"God knows!" answered Melvyna. "The last time I noticed their sail they were about a mile outside of the reef."

She had risen, and now stood regarding the watery waste with the usual timid look in her gentle eyes. Then she stepped forward with her uncertain tread, and before the woman by her side comprehended her purpose she was gone, ankle-deep in the tide, knee-deep, and finally wading across the sand up to her waist in water toward the light-house. The great wave was no deeper, however, even there. She waded to the door of the tower, opened it with difficulty, climbed the stairway, and gained the light room, where the glass of the windows was all shattered, and the little chamber half full of the dead bodies of birds, swept along by the whirlwind and dashed against the tower, none of them falling to the ground or losing an inch of their level in the air as they sped onward, until they struck against some high object, which broke their mad and awful journey. Holding on by the shattered casement, Sister St. Luke gazed out to sea. The wind was blowing fiercely and the waves were lashed to fury. The sky was inky black. The reef was under water, save one high knob of its backbone, and to that two dark objects were clinging. Further down she saw the wreck of the boat driving before the gale. Pedro was over in the village; the tide was coming in over the high sea, and night was approaching. She walked quickly down the rough stone stairs, stepped into the water again, and waded across where the paroquet boat had been driven against the wall of the house, baled it out with one of Melvyna's pans, and then, climbing in from the window of the sitting-room, she hoisted the sail, and in a moment was out on the dark sea.

Melvyna had ascended to the top of the ridge, and when the sail came into view beyond the house she fell down on her knees and began to pray aloud: "Oh, Lord, save her; save the lamb! She don't know what's she is doing, Lord. She's as simple as a baby. Oh, save her, out on that roaring sea! Good Lord, good Lord, deliver her!" Fragments of prayers she had heard in her prayer-meeting days came confusedly back into her mind, and she repeated them all again and again, wringing her hands as she saw the little craft tilt far over under its all too large sail, so that several times, in the hollows of the waves, she thought it was gone. The wind was blowing hard but steadily, and in a direction that carried the boat straight toward the reef; no tacks were necessary, no change of course; the black-robed little figure simply held the sail rope, and the paroquet drove on. The two clinging to the rock, bruised, exhausted, with the waves rising and falling around them, did not see the boat until it was close upon them.

His face was pallid and rigid, and there was a ghastly cut across his forehead, the work of the sharp-edged rock. The next moment he was on board, brought the boat round just in time, and helped in Carrington, whose right arm was injured.

"By Jove, yes," said Carrington. "We could not have stood it long, and night was coming." Then they gave all their attention to the hazardous start.

Sister St. Luke remained unconscious of the fact that she had done anything remarkable. Her black gown was spoiled, which was a pity, and she knew of a balm which was easily compounded and which would heal their bruises. Did they think Melvyna had come back to the house yet? And did they know that all her dishes were broken—yes, even the cups with the red flowers on the border? Then she grew timorous again, and hid her face from the sight of the waves.

Keith said not a word, but sailed the boat, and it was a wild and dangerous voyage they made, tacking up and down in the gayly painted little craft, that seemed like a toy on that angry water. Once Carrington took the little Sister's hand in his, and pressed his lips fervently upon it. She had never had her hand kissed before, and looked at him, then at the place, with a vague surprise, which soon faded, however, into the old fear of the wind. It was night when at last they reached the light-house; but during the last two tacks they had a light from the window to guide them; and when nearly in they saw the lantern shining out from the shattered windows of the tower in a fitful, surprised sort of a way, for Melvyna had returned, and with the true spirit of a Yankee, had immediately gone to work at the ruins.

The only sign of emotion she gave was to Keith. "I saw it all," she said. "That child went right out after you, in that terrible wind, as natural and as quiet as if she was only going across the room. And she so timid a fly could frighten her! Mark my words, Mr. Keith, the good Lord helped her to do it! And I'll go to that new mission chapel over in the town every Sunday after this, as sure's my name is Sawyer!" She ceased abruptly, and going into her kitchen, slammed the door behind her. Emotion with Melvyna took the form of roughness.

Sister St. Luke went joyfully back to her convent the next day, for Pedro, when he returned, brought the letter, written, as Keith had directed, in the style of an affectionate invitation. The little nun wept for happiness when she read it. "You see how they love me—love me as I love them," she repeated with innocent triumph again and again.

"It is all we can do," said Keith. "She could not be happy anywhere else, and with the money behind her she will not be neglected. Besides, I really believe they do love her. The sending here up here was probably the result of some outside dictation."

Carrington, however, was dissatisfied. "A pretty return we make for our saved lives," he said. "I hate ingratitude." For Carrington was half disposed now to fall in love with his preserver.

"Adios," said the little Sister, as Pedro's boat received her. Her face had lighted so with joy and glad anticipation that they hardly knew her. "I wish you could to the convent go with me," she said earnestly to the two young men. "I am sure you would like it." Then, as the boat turned the point, "I am sure you would like it," she called back, crossing her hands on her breast. "It is very heavenly there—very heavenly."

Carrington sent down the next winter from New York a large silver crucifix, superbly embossed and ornamented. It was placed on the high altar of the convent, and much admired and reverenced by all the nuns. Sister St. Luke admired it too. She spoke of the island occasionally, but she did not tell the story of the rescue. She never thought of it. Therefore, in the matter of the crucifix, the belief was that a special grace had touched the young man's heart. And prayers were ordered for him. Sister St. Luke tended her doves, and at the hour of meditation paced to and fro between the lime tree and the bush of white roses. When she was thirty years old her cup was full, for then she was permitted to take lessons and play a little upon the old organ.

Melvyna went every Sunday to the bare, struggling little Presbyterian mission over in the town, and she remains to this day a Sawyer.

But Keith remembered. He bares his head silently in reverence to all womanhood, and curbs his cynicism as best he can, for the sake of the little Sister—the sweet little Sister St. Luke.

What care I for the tempest? What care I for the rain?

If it beat upon my bosom, would it cool its burning pain—

This pain that ne'er has left me since on his heart I lay,

And sobbed my grief at parting as I'd sob my soul away?

O Antony! Antony! Antony! when in thy circling arms

Shall I sacrifice to Eros my glorious woman's charms,

And burn life's sweetest incense before his sacred shrine

With the living fire that flashes from thine eyes into mine?

O when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my face,

As, a queen of love and beauty, I lie in thine embrace,

Melting—melting—melting, as a woman only can

When she's a willing captive in the conquering arms of man,

As he towers a god above her, and to yield is not defeat,

For love can own no victor if love with love shall meet?

I still have regal splendor, I still have queenly power,

And—more than all—unfaded is woman's glorious dower.

But what care I for pleasure? what's beauty to me now,

Since Love no longer places his crown upon my brow?

I have tasted its elixir, its fire has through me flashed,

But when the wine glowed brightest from my eager lip 'twas dashed.

And I would give all Egypt but once to feel the bliss

Which thrills through all my being whene'er I meet his kiss.

The tempest wildly rages, my hair is wet with rain,

But it does not still my longing, or cool my burning pain.

For Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of my soul

When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a queen's control.

I fear not pale Octavia—that haughty Roman dame—

My lion of the desert—my Antony can tame.

I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid:

The world holds not the woman of whom I am afraid.

But I'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss,

And I would not that another should share with me that bliss.

No joy would I deny him, let him cull it where he will,

So, mistress of his bosom is Cleopatra still;

So that he feels for ever, when he Love's nectar sips,

'Twas sweeter—sweeter—sweeter when tasted on my lips;

So that all other kisses, since he has drawn in mine,

Shall be unto my loved as "water after wine."

Awhile let Cæsar fancy Octavia's pallid charms

Can hold Rome's proudest consul a captive in her arms.

Her cold embrace but brightens the memory of mine,

And for my warm caresses he in her arms shall pine.

'Twas not for love he sought her, but for her princely dower;

She brought him Cæsar's friendship, she brought him kingly power.

I should have bid him take her, had he my counsel sought.

I've but to smile upon him, and all her charms are nought;

For I would scorn to hold him by but a single hair,

Save his own longing for me when I'm no longer there;

And I will show you, Roman, that for one kiss from me

Wife—fame—and even honor to him shall nothing be!

Throw wide the window, Isis—fling perfumes o'er me now,

And bind the Lotus blossoms again upon my brow.

The rain has ceased its weeping, the driving storm is past,

And calm are Nature's pulses that lately beat so fast.

Gone is my jealous frenzy, and Eros reigns serene,

The only god e'er worshipped by Egypt's haughty queen.

With Antony—my loved—I'll kneel before his shrine

Till the loves of Mars and Venus are nought to his and mine;

And down through coming ages, in every land and tongue,

With them shall Cleopatra and Antony be sung.

Burn Sandal-wood and Cassia, let the vapor round me wreathe,

And mingle with the incense the Lotus blossoms breathe.

Let India's spicy odors and Persia's perfumes rare

Be wafted on the pinions of Egypt's fragrant air.

With the sighing of the night breeze, the river's rippling flow,

Let me hear the notes of music in cadence soft and low.

Draw round my couch its curtains: I'd bathe my soul in sleep;

I feel its gentle languor upon me slowly creep.

O let me cheat my senses with dreams of future bliss,

In fancy feel his presence, in fancy taste his kiss,

In fancy nestle closely against his throbbing heart,

And throw my arms around him, no more—no more to part.

Hush! hush! his spirit's pinions are rustling in my ears:

He comes upon the tempest to calm my jealous fears;

He comes upon the tempest in answer to my call.

Wife—fame—and even honor—for me he leaves them all;

And royally I'll welcome my lover to my side.

I have won him—I have won him from Cæsar and his bride.

In our late inquiry2 into the secrets of dramatic success, our researches were principally directed toward the ascertainment of such general and technical rules as might recommend themselves for the treatment of all dramas, whatever the nature of their subject, tragic, comic, or melodramatic. The limits of space unavoidable in a magazine article prevented anything more than a fragmentary treatment of that part of the subject, indicating the general line of argument that seemed to be the soundest in the light of the present day, and presenting for consideration twelve technical rules, more or less general, which we shall here summarize for the sake of convenience, to make clear what follows:

The reasons for some of these arbitrary rules will appear plain to even a cursory observer. The others will recommend themselves, I think, after an examination of the models cited in the article itself, to which the reader is referred. It must not be supposed, however, even by the lay reader, that a subject so extensive can be exhausted in so short an essay. Old actors and dramatists, in the light of their own experience, may even doubt whether a theme so abstruse and difficult can be treated at all, save by one of lifelong experience, and may be inclined to sneer at the presumption of any person who attempts to write on methods of attaining dramatic success before having attained it himself by a grandly popular drama. It seems to the present writer, however, that the inquiry is open to all, and if conducted on the inductive method, with plays of acknowledged popularity for a basis, may result in the settlement of some points around which he, in common with other hitherto unsuccessful dramatists, has been groping for years.

In closing the first part of our inquiry, we remarked on the fact that the interest of a successful play increases gradually from act to act, and that it is usually concentrated on a few people. The next question that presents itself in our treatment of the play as a whole is as to the best method of attaining this increase of interest from act to act, and how it is done in successful plays. The suggestion in rule X. seems to be the one most generally used by old dramatists for this purpose—that is, the employment of the partial climax as a means of exciting suspense. It may be said to be one of the most difficult points in dramatic construction to decide when to bring the curtain down at the end of a play; and the fall of the drop at the end of each act offers nearly equal difficulties. Is there any guide to a solution of this question in the handling of well-known plays? If there is, let us endeavor to find it.

The first thing to be remarked is that we cannot apply to Shakespeare for the information. The experience of nearly three centuries in the acting of Shakespeare's plays has resulted in making the acting editions very different from the original plays in arrangement, in the suppression of whole scenes and acts, the substitution of others, the amalgamation of plays, the taking of all sorts of liberties with the action. Only in one thing do they remain at all times faithful to the original author, in the preservation, for the most part, of his language. Familiar instances will occur in the "Merchant of Venice," where the play is now always closed with the trial scene; a few sentences between Bassanio and Portia, clumsily tacked on, being regarded as preferable to the original closing in a final act of light comedy. The amalgamation, in the acting edition of "Richard III.," of parts of "Henry V." and "Henry VI.," and the suppression of the historical ending after Richard's death, were changes made by Colley Cibber, which have stood the test of time, and have made the play a traditional success whenever well acted. In each case experience showed that the following up of a scene of tragic intensity by either comedy or narrative made the scene drag. In other words, it was an anti-climax.

It is noticeable, by the by, that these instances of clumsy construction and consequent alteration occur most frequently in Shakespeare's historic dramas, where he was fettered by familiar facts, and thought less of the play than of the chronicle. Such plays of his as deal with popular legend or stories, already polished by tradition into poetic justice, and moulded by instinct into a dramatic form, have suffered much less in the adaptation; some, such as "Midsummer Night's Dream," "As You Like It," hardly needing alteration. While I do not suppose that in these or any other play Shakespeare consciously worked on any philosophic principle of construction, previously thought out, it is evident that his artistic instinct, left to itself, prevented his making any serious mistakes in technique, a matter which has advanced considerably since his day. I believe that, had Shakespeare lived to-day, he would have written much more perfectly constructed acting plays, while at the same time his vast knowledge, or rather lightning appreciation of the various phases of human nature, would have been just as great. When he wrote, the English drama was in its infancy, but three centuries of actors, managers, scene painters, and carpenters have made great advances in technical experience since those days; and no genius, however great in the essentials of painting the passions, can to-day attain success if ignorant of the technical secrets of managing scenes. We have noticed the changes made in "Richard" and the "Merchant of Venice," to avoid the anti-climax. Let us take a modern stock play, the "Lady of Lyons," to illustrate the opposite of dramatic construction. The first act ends with Claude scornfully rejected by Pauline, burning for revenge, offered a chance, ready to grasp it. Down goes the drop. The second act closes with his revenge almost completed, his remorse beginning. He is going to be married—not married yet. Down goes the drop. Third act—he is married, and his remorse has come. He has deceived a loving woman, and resolves to atone by giving her up. Down goes the drop on his resolve, still unaccomplished. Fourth act—he expiates his crime and sees a chance to regain happiness after a long, weary probation. Again the drop falls on a suspense. The question is—Will he stand the test, and will Pauline be faithful? The fifth act opens in gloom, and closes with the reward of virtue and punishment of vice. The reader will mark in each case how the acts end in suspense, and how, as soon as the suspense is clearly indicated, down comes the drop. This was Bulwer's first successful play, and we shall come to it again in looking at the inner secrets that guide the motives of a drama. The good construction of the "Lady of Lyons" and the faulty original construction of the "Merchant of Venice" must not blind us to the fact that Shylock was the work of a lofty genius, Claude merely the polished production of a man of talent and erudition. From the preface to "The Caxtons," and other sources, we know that Bulwer was fond of ascertaining rules and principles, and that he always did good work when once he had found them out. Shakespeare as clearly worked from pure instinct, and defied almost all rules, except to hold "the mirror up to nature." Could we only join to-day the brains of old William and the research and learning of old "Lytton," what a drama might we have at last! But lest we further wander away from our theme, it is time to propose the canon which the reader must by this time have anticipated as self-evident:

Before passing to the more particular secrets of handling scenes in a dramatic success, one other general point remains to be treated, which is the respective merits of Greek and Gothic dramatic construction, as developed, in modern times, into the French and English methods. The distinction is broad and simple. The French write all their plays, or almost all, in single-scene acts, and never employ front scenes in a regular play; the English of the old school use front scenes, and multiply the divisions of an act into as many as five in some instances. Each method has its strong and weak points. The French method is apt to become stiff and formal, the English to fritter away the action of the drama into a mass of subordinate pictures. On the other hand, the French method gives a degree of realism to each act in a drama to which it cannot pretend where the scenes are shifted. Each act becomes a living picture, revealed by the rising of the curtain and closed by its fall. As long as it lasts it is perfect, and every year of advance in the mechanical part of theatricals increases the resources of the stage in the direction of realism. In interiors particularly the advance has become very great, since the general introduction of box scenes, with a regular ceiling and walls, simulating the appearance of a room with complete fidelity. Such a scene is barely practicable and always clumsy if set in sight of the audience, and its removal is hardly possible, save as hidden by the curtain. Open-air scenes may be enriched with all sorts of heavy set-pieces, when acts are composed of one scene, which must be dispensed with if the scenes are numerous, or their removal will entail such a noise as seriously to disturb the illusion. The removal of scenes, moreover, always disturbs, more or less, the action of a drama, and unless that action be very complex, requiring several sets of characters, to be introduced in different places simultaneously, is unwise.

On the other hand, the breaking up of acts into three or more scenes offers one great advantage, that of variety, and prevents many a play from dragging. If there are two sets of characters in a play, the virtuous and the wicked, it is a very good device to keep them apart, acting simultaneously in different scenes, during the action of a play, to be brought together only at the climax; and such a method has been employed by the best artists, with a gain in interest that could not have been obtained with the single-scene act for a basis.

The greatest masters of dramatic construction that have made their appearance in the present century are probably Bulwer Lytton and Dion Boucicault; and each has left good examples of treatment in both schools. Bulwer, in the "Lady of Lyons" and "Richelieu," both romantic plays, with the regular villanous element, has used the front scene to advantage wherever he found it necessary. In "Money," on the other hand, a scientific comedy of the very first order, the five pictures succeed each other with no disturbance but that of the curtain. The plot of "Money," be it observed, is quite simple, the characters few, the intention that of the old Greek comedy—a satire on manners.

Boucicault, in his latest success—the "Shaughraun"—and in his other Irish dramas, notably the "Colleen Bawn," uses three and even five scenes in an act, with perfect freedom, while in others, almost as successful in their day, such as "Jessie Brown," "Octoroon," the French form seemed to him to be preferable. Some principle must have guided him in this distinction, as it did Bulwer, and the same elements probably decided both to tell one story in one way, the other in another. It is observable that both treat a romantic and complicated story, with numerous characters and considerable of the villanous element, in numerous scenes, whereas a realistic picture of actual manners, such as "Money," "Octoroon," "Jessie Brown," falls naturally into few scenes. The climax of each of these last mentioned plays, be it observed, is produced by the operation of general causes, the laws of society in "Money" and "Octoroon," the operation of a historical fact in "Jessie Brown," while in the romantic plays the climax depends on the action of the characters, determined by accidental circumstances, irrespective of general laws. The respective rank of "Money" and the "Lady of Lyons" in the lapse of years can hardly, I think, be doubted. The first will hold its own with the "School for Scandal," when the "Lady of Lyons" is forgotten, along with "The Duenna." The recent success of Augustin Daly in adapting the "School for Scandal" to mono-scenic acts shows how readily that form lends itself to the exigencies of legitimate comedy. The single fault of that adaptation is that the first act drags, just as Sardou's first acts always drag, but the audience forgets that as the story progresses. The result of our ramble through the instances mentioned seems to be this canon:

We have now explored, with more or less success, some of the general and broad principles that underlie dramatic construction taken as a whole, without regard to particular forms and instances. It would seem that a brief excursion into the domain of particulars may not be out of place, partly as a recreation, partly to test the accuracy of our past conclusions. Let us take, for instance, the greatest popular successes of late years, and try to find wherein lies their secret, following these by an inquiry into the cause why some stock plays hold the boards while others are dead. What is the secret of the "Black Crook"? Of Boucicault's Irish dramas? Of Bulwer's renowned trio, "Lady of Lyons," "Richelieu," "Money"? Of "School for Scandal" and "Rivals"? Of "Richard III.," "Macbeth," "Othello," "Lear," "Hamlet," and the Shakespeare comedies? I put out of the question now such plays as the "Dundreary" drama, depending as those do on a different element of success, apart from the drama itself, to which we shall come before we finish.

First, what is the secret of the "Black Crook"? No other drama ever had such a run in the United States, in spite of all sorts of abuse, in spite of numerous literary faults, and it has always succeeded wherever it has been properly put on the stage. What is its secret? The stereotyped answer of the disappointed dramatist and carping newspaper critic used to be "legs"; but that answer will not do now. There have been plenty of "leg" dramas put on since that day, and as far as the display of feminine anatomy is concerned, the "Black Crook" was a paragon of prudery compared with many of its followers; yet they only ran a few weeks, while the "Black Crook" ran nearly three years, all over the Union, with hardly a serious break. It was not the dancing, for we have had better since, as far as gymnastics are concerned; it was not the dresses and scenery, for both have been excelled since that day; it was not the beauty of the tableaux, for they also have been excelled; it was something in the drama itself, quite different from its predecessors and followers. The "Black Crook" was a strong, exaggerated melodrama, with plenty of the weird element in the incantation scene, relieved by the broadest of broad farce in the person of the magician's comic slave. It was full of variety. There was a little of everything, and nothing very long at one time. When it first came out I remember very young gentlemen making learned criticisms on the powerful acting of the man who played the "Black Crook" himself. The same class also raved about the "terrible" incantation scene, which was worked up till the passion was torn to tatters. But I feel convinced that the incantation scene, the dances, the novelty of ladies in tights, would have failed to make the "Black Crook" a success but for the broad humor and farce of that comic slave and the old housekeeper and steward. That humor was so simple, so like the well remembered ringmaster and clown of our childhood, that we all laughed at it, wise as well as foolish. I remember well during the second run of the venerable Herzog and his slave, talking to a very acute and learned gentleman—a man of the world too—who actually had never seen the "Black Crook" till the previous evening, and he was convulsed with laughter every time he recalled the figure of the man who shouts, "I want to go home!" That figure remained with him out of all the play, in his memory, as something irresistibly comic, just as the weird and uncanny elements remained with the minds of smaller calibre. For the children who saw it, I will venture to say that the parts which pleased them most were the parts which made the success of the play, the obtrusion of broad farce in one place, the beauty of the grotto scene and really poetical dancing of Bonfanti in another. Strange that of all the dancers, many more agile and supple, no one should ever have replaced Bonfanti, or even come near her in the "Black Crook." She gave the play what it lacked, poetical beauty and grace, and thus completed the secret of its success, which was—variety. Its rivals and followers tried to beat up the narrow channel that leads to public favor, in one or two long tacks, and ended by running aground, while the "Black Crook" kept hands at the braces all the time, and "went about" as often as the water showed a symptom of shoaling.

The same secret of variety accounts for the great success of Boucicault's Irish dramas as compared with those of other dramatists, and even with his own plays on other subjects. The regular old-fashioned Irish drama had interest only to an Irishman. It dealt with rebellions of half a century and more gone by, stamped out, and in which few took interest outside of Ireland. A certain element, that of traditional abuse of the traditional Briton, who was supposed to be always wandering over the United States with his pockets full of Berrritish gold, trying to corrupt patriotic Americans and regain King George's colonies, gave a certain interest to the Irish drama in America for the half century before the dedication of the Bunker Hill monument, but that faded out as time obliterated early jealousies. Then came Boucicault and did a wonderful thing, taking hackneyed and ridiculous Fenianism and making out of it one of the greatest successes of modern times, that bids fair to remain a stock play for years—the "Shaughraun." In "Arrah-na-Pogue" he took the old thin story of the Irish patriot of '98, and achieved an equal success, while in the "Colleen Bawn" he made a tremendous hit with even poorer materials. The secret of the success of all three plays is found in variety, produced by contrasting the broad unctuous humor and sharp wit of the Irish peasant, familiar to the English-speaking world, with the quiet delicacy and refinement of the Irish upper classes, by using a few strong melodramatic situations, but nothing very long, the pathos always relieved by humor before it drags. The whole play—any of the three—rattles off without a hitch. In the last and most perfect, the "Shaughraun," a very happy hit is made with the comic villain, a new creation in the drama, though as old in the pantomime as Clown and Pantaloon.

If variety be the leading element of success in the "Black Crook" and the Irish dramas of Boucicault, wherein lies that of Bulwer's trio of stock plays by which he will be remembered? The first of his successes was the "Lady of Lyons," and we have already seen how skilful is the mechanical construction of this play, leading the suspense from act to act; but that will not account for the whole of the interest. A saying of Boucicault as to this play gives us also a key to the whole three Bulwer plays, for we find the same element pervading them all—the central idea of two, and only slightly modified in the third. Boucicault has remarked that the interest of the "Lady of Lyons" really depends on the fact that the completion of Claude's marriage is delayed from the second to the end of the fifth act; and a little reflection will show this to be the case. The whole interest of the play before the close of the second act turns on whether Claude will obtain his lady-love; the interest thereafter on his resistance to the temptations that draw him toward Pauline against honor. Look at "Richelieu," and the same element intensified pervades it. Adrian de Mauprat marries Julie at the close of the first act, only to be separated from her all the rest of the play till the climax. Richelieu himself, as far as the main action of the play is concerned, is secondary to Adrian, the end of all plays being "to make two lovers happy." In "Money" nearly the same motive runs through the play. In the first act Evelyn finds that Clara loves him, and all real obstacle to their marriage is removed by his sudden accession to fortune; yet all the rest of the play sees them kept apart by the most flimsy obstacles, just to tantalize the audience, and make them wonder if those two fools will ever come together. The means are very simple, and yet quite powerful enough, as much so as the first part of "Romeo and Juliet," where, by the by, almost all the interest dies out after the balcony scene. The main secret of Bulwer then reveals itself, like that of flirtation, to reside in the art of tantalization.

We next come to Sheridan, the man who wrote the best comedy in the English language, "School for Scandal." The secret of that play and the "Rivals" has been thought by some to consist in the dialogue, but dialogue alone never made a play run before a mixed audience. The worst dialogue in the "Black Crook"—and God knows it was bad enough—could not kill that play any more than the finest dialogue could make Tennyson's "Queen Mary" into a real play, or galvanize it into a semblance of interest before an audience. Sheridan has more than witty dialogue. His situations are always capital, and his characters are without exception real living beings, only very slightly caricatured. To be sure they are rather too sharp and clever as a class, for we seldom or never meet in society such a perfect galaxy of smart, keen-witted people, Mrs. Malaprop not excepted; but the secret of Sheridan lies below dialogue and character. It lies, I think, in the natural sympathy felt by all mixed audiences in favor of youth and high spirits, through all their pranks, as exemplified in Captain Absolute, Charles Surface, Lydia Languish, and Lady Teazle, against respectability, honest or the reverse, embodied in Sir Anthony Absolute, Sir Peter Teazle, and Joseph Surface. It is the protest of honest animal spirits against conventionality, ending in the reconciliation of the rebels to society. Some people talk of the bad moral of the "School for Scandal," never thinking that it is identical in spirit with that of the parable of the Prodigal Son. A broad feeling of charity and toleration for honest error, with a grimly sarcastic treatment of all shams, pervade Sheridan's work just as they do those of all the great satirists, whether novelists or dramatists. Goldsmith, Fielding, Dickens, Thackeray, all run in the same track when they once get started, and we must confess that they have pretty high authority for their kindness toward the returning prodigal and their sneers at his eminently respectable brother, Joseph Surface, Esq.

This secret of Sheridan in the "School for Scandal" is the main element of only one modern drama that I now remember—"Rip Van Winkle"—but it is quite common in the "old comedies," as they are called. These old comedies generally make their appearance at least once in two years at such theatres as Wallack's and Daly's of New York and the Arch Street at Philadelphia. I forget the name of the Boston "legitimate" place. When well acted they always "take," and there are so many stage traditions of how to act them that they are seldom badly done. The forgiveness of repentant prodigals, it will be remembered, forms the basis of most of them, an element which has gradually disappeared from the modern drama in deference to the increasing Philistine element, represented by the Y.M.C.A. and the T.A.B.

Ascending from the modern English drama to its parents in the Elizabethan era, we encounter the only dramatist of those times whose works still hold the stage, and ask what is the secret of "Richard III.," "Macbeth," "Othello," "Lear," "Hamlet," and the Shakespeare comedies. The first general answer that most people will give is—the genius of Shakespeare; his power of drawing character, his wonderful language, his mastery of human passion. All these, it seems to me, are true, but it is to the last element that the success of Shakespeare's plays on the stage is mainly due. No other dramatist, French, English, or German, with the single exception of Goethe in "Faust," has succeeded in making men and women, under the influence of tremendous passion, talk and act so truly, so realistically. We notice this on the stage when we see "Richard III." well acted. The man becomes a real live man, a great scamp no doubt, but an able scamp, so able that he actually excites our sympathy, when a really good actor plays him. The main power of Shakespeare's tragedies to-day, and their superiority to the tragedies of any other dramatist, lies in their realism. Where a modern dramatist like Boucicault confines his realistic treatment to matters with which most of us are familiar, Shakespeare flies at any game, no matter how high, and impresses us with the presence of real men and women, whether they be kings and queens or only common folk. This seems to be Shakespeare's one secret which makes his plays hold the stage to-day in spite of faulty construction, in spite of all the modern advances in stage management. Modern dramas are realistic, but they deal with common emotions, cramped by the restraints of an artificial state of society, where all our feelings are more or less artificial. Shakespeare takes human nature untrammelled, and paints it as it is, unshackled by the commonplace laws of modern society. Compare his pathos with modern pathos, and see the difference. The staple element of modern pathos is the contrast between poverty and riches, hunger and fulness, cold and warmth. The greatest pathos of Shakespeare, in "Lear," comes out not in the storm scene, but in the meeting of Lear and Cordelia amid luxury and comfort. The old king hurls curses and contempt at the mere physical discomforts of the tempest; they serve to divert his thoughts from the far greater torture of his mind; but when his conscience makes him crave pardon of his own child, then indeed the limit of human pathos is reached. There is nothing artificial there. Lear might be any old man as well as a king, and the situation would be just as terrible in its justice of atonement. It is truth.

That realism is the whole secret of Shakespeare's success as a dramatist, is made more evident by the fact that he avows it himself in "Hamlet," as the mainspring of dramatic success, in the celebrated "advice to the players." This being the only passage on record in which Shakespeare lays down his principles of art, has always been held as of great value, and has probably done more to improve the English stage than most people imagine. It has been always available as a canon to which to refer unnatural ranters, and to prevent the robustious school from tearing a passion to tatters. It sobered down Forrest in his old age into a model Othello, and constitutes the secret that has placed Lester Wallack and Joseph Jefferson at the head of their respective lines of light comedy. I think, however, it has hardly been recognized fully enough as the principle on which Shakespeare worked, for here at least he does seem to have held to a rigidly defined and artificial principle of action. This was to take a given passion and treat it with the utmost realism from every point of view, making that the motive of a play, being otherwise careless of construction.

This principle appears very clearly in "Lear," the most artificial in construction of all Shakespeare's tragedies. His theme was filial ingratitude, and hardly a scene in the whole drama turns aside from that theme. It appears in the two plots about Lear and Gloucester, both having exactly the same lines of actors, the last obviously a reflex of the first. It is perhaps the only play of Shakespeare in which the moral obtrudes itself forcibly all through the action, as plainly as in the stories of an old-fashioned primer, and I cannot help thinking that if the whole story of Edgar and Edmund had been left out, the play would have gained in unity and nature.

In "Richard III." ambition is the ruling passion, treated in the same realistic fashion, conjoined with the extreme sensitiveness of personal deformity to strictures on itself. In "Macbeth" ambition pure and simple is treated from every point, first in man, then in woman; afterward remorse is dissected with equal skill. The ruling passion in "Hamlet" is somewhat more difficult to analyze than the rest, but I think that the renowned soliloquy of "To be or not to be" discloses it more clearly than any other part of the play. It is fear. Fear appears in Hamlet all through the play, from the first ghost scene to the death of Ophelia—an excessive caution, a hesitation, a timidity, a want of resolution, mental more than physical, which lasts till he returns from his travels and is stung into manliness over poor Ophelia's grave. Then at last he does what he ought to have done at first, but for his lack of good, honest pluck—gets savage and breaks things, and so works poetical justice.

If the tragedies of Shakespeare reveal their principal secret to be the realistic treatment of master passions, what shall we say to such comedies as "Midsummer Night's Dream," "As You Like It," "Much Ado About Nothing," and such? It is very difficult to define in what consists their success, apart from the beauty of their love stories, their dainty language, their charming feminine characters, and a cloud of accessories, none of which can properly be called the main secret. The first two, I think, owe their beauty principally to the dissection of that passion of love which forms the motive of "Romeo and Juliet." The author treats us to nothing but love scenes and scenes in mockery of love, and yet we never tire of them. In "Much Ado About Nothing," to be sure, there is an artificial plot of villany to hinder the love-making, but after all it is Benedick and Beatrice, making fun of love and getting caught in its toils, that make the charm of the piece, and the same device, minute analysis of love, makes "Twelfth Night" what it is. When we come to look below the surface we find, in the comedies as in the tragedies of Shakespeare, that the realistic treatment of some ruling passion forms the ultimate secret on which he works.

To sum up in the aphoristic form the secrets affecting the motives of the greatest dramatic successes of the English stage, we can, I think, partially agree on one more canon:

The subject of dramatic success, however, has one more very important branch, still to be considered. As an artist cannot work without colors and brushes, so a dramatist cannot work without actors. Good actors cannot permanently lift a bad play out of the mud, but bad actors can murder the best drama ever written, and even the best actor cannot make a hit if his part does not fit him and his physical appearance. I remember once a ludicrous instance of this, with Boucicault's "Flying Scud," which I happened to see in Buffalo. Nat Gosling, the venerable jockey, was there played by a man weighing at least a hundred and eighty pounds, in the dress of an old farmer; and the absurdity was so glaring that the whole play fell as dead as ditchwater, though by no means badly played. The same play in New York was first fitted exactly with Young for its Nat Gosling—a little, dried-up, weazen-faced man, who identified himself so perfectly with the character that the piece became quite a furore. It is a very common superstition among actors that a good actor can act anything, and can "make up" to look like anything, and no doubt this is partially, but only partially, true. There are actors, with flat, commonplace faces, figures of medium size, voices of no particular character, who, by dint of a little paint and pomatum, some false hair, some padding, and considerable study, can adapt themselves to play almost any character after a fashion; but it is a significant fact that such men are not to be found among the leaders of their profession, but only in the second rank. Great actors take a line and stick to it, one that exactly suits their individuality, and such find their mark. If they leave it, they deteriorate, if they stick to it, they become identified with it, and no one can rival them in their specialty. They become real "stars." Jefferson found in Rip Van Winkle his fit, and has been wise enough never to leave it. Sothern did the same in Lord Dundreary. Lester Wallack has his own recognized line, the blasé man of the world, which he never leaves, save to his misfortune. Edwin Booth keeps his face, figure, and voice the same in all his characters, and people crowd to see him. Why? Because he has a delicately handsome face and figure, a melodious voice, and a clear, intellectual conception of every part. They go to see Booth, not Bertuccio, or Brutus, or Othello, and it is noticeable that his Hamlet is one of his most successful pieces, because in it he is less disguised than anywhere else. The greatest success Barrett ever made was in Cassius, because the part fitted him, and no one has ever come near him in that part, where his face and figure appeared as nature made them. Any one who has ever seen Charles Fisher act Triplet in "Masks and Faces" must have realized the same sense of entire completeness and fitness which attended Barrett's Cassius, Jefferson's Rip Van Winkle, Lester Wallack's Elliott Gray, Sothern's Dundreary, Harry Placide's Monsieur Tourbillon, Booth's Iago and Richard III., Mrs. Scott-Siddons's Viola, Fanny Davenport's Georgette in "Fernande," Mary Gannon's "Little Treasure," Maggie Mitchell's "Fanchon" and "Little Barefoot."

In all these undoubted successes, old and new, with the sole exception of Sothern's Dundreary, the actors and actresses appeared and appear undisguised, talk in a natural voice, and fit their characters like a glove, face, figure, and all. This essential of fitness between character and physique is sometimes ignored by managers, with disastrous effects, while its observance has made a success of many a play, bolstered up by the influence of a single character. T. P. Cooke's Long Tom Coffin in the "Pilot" was such an instance of phenomenal success attained by the physique of one actor, carrying a rubbishy play through. Charlotte Cushman's Meg Merrilies was another such instance, the mere power of face, figure, and voice making a triumph, spite of poor play, and even spite of unmitigated and unnatural rant on the part of the actress. I have mentioned one instance in my own observation of the consequences of putting actors into ill fitting parts, in "Flying Scud." If the reader can imagine Lester Wallack in Rip Van Winkle, Jefferson in Elliott Gray or Hugh Chalcote, Barrett in Dundreary, Sothern in Cassius, Booth as Monsieur Tourbillon or Solon Shingle, Owens as Iago, he will have the salient points of our argument in strong light. The best example of a well fitted play I ever saw was Lester Wallack's "Veteran," as first acted, with James W. Wallack for Colonel Delmar, Mrs. Hoey for Amina, Mary Gannon for the other young woman, Mrs. Vernon for Mrs. MacShake. Every part, down to the very slaves, was perfectly fitted, and nothing has since come near it in completeness except Boucicault's plays, written at different times for the same theatre, "Jessie Brown" and the "Shaughraun." The full consideration of all these facts, and especially a retrospect of the relative rank of versatile actors and of specialists, has led to the following further aphorism:

The consideration of actors as affecting the success of a play brings us to the last branch of the whole subject affected by the dramatic canons, which is the qualifications required by the dramatist to secure success. When we have considered them we shall have finished our task—the completion of an essay to arouse thought in others. When we consider the literary construction of such plays as "Black Crook," "Buffalo Bill," as well as the hosts of nameless dramas that are constantly making their appearance at minor and first-class theatres, their flat dialogue and general insipidity when merely read, not acted, we begin to realize that genius or even talent in the author are not the first requisite. He may lack both and still succeed. He must, however, have one thing, or he might as well keep out of the box office altogether, for his plays will be there pigeon-holed for good if he possesses it not. This something is stage experience. He may be an actor, no matter how bad, a scene painter, a carpenter, a musician, but he must have been about a theatre in some capacity, no matter how humble, to see how things work. One week behind the curtain is worth a year in front. The mere acquaintance with the ways of managers and actors is worth a good deal of time, but the familiarity with the working of a piece is the main thing. The most successful American comedy that has yet appeared was written by a walking lady who never would have made an actress if she had staid on the stage forty years, but who utilized her experience to some purpose on quitting the stage. The most successful money-making sensational piece of late years was written by a scene painter, and the poorest actors frequently write very good pieces, while good actors who possess talent for scribbling, almost always do well as playwrights. Only one fault do they all exhibit, without any exception, so far as my experience has run: they are all utterly oblivious of the meaning of the eighth commandment, and seem to regard plagiarism not as theft, but as a favor to the author whose literary property they steal. This is the worst that can be said about actor-authors, and to the rule there are no exceptions that ever I heard of. Actor-authors are unmitigated pirates of the most utterly unscrupulous sort, who crib whole chapters out of novels, word for word, without shame or acknowledgment, and write successful plays by filching other men's ideas, making a patchwork. Perhaps the most shameless of the whole raft of these actor-authors is Lester Wallack, whose two plays, the "Veteran" and "Rose-dale," are marvels of patchwork of this sort. In the first all the Arab characters and several scenes, language and all, are taken straight out of Captain James Grant's nearly forgotten novel of the, "Queen's Own," and in the second most of the plot and the most successful comic scene of the play come bodily from Colonel Hamley's "Lady Lee's Widowhood," another military novel. The provoking part of all this thieving in Wallack is, that other parts of his plays show that the man has talent enough to write, if he were not too lazy to work; but this preference of theft to labor is so common among actor-authors that nothing will ever check it but an extension of the copyright law in the interests of justice; for moral sense in the direction of the eighth commandment seems to be utterly unknown among them. The truth of the old adage about "hawks pikeing out hawks 'een" is, however, curiously exemplified in the scruples which the same men display as managers toward appropriating a play, no matter how much of a piracy in itself, without payment to the playwright, unless he be a Frenchman, when the case at once becomes altered. Novelists and foreign dramatists having no legal rights, actor-authors appear to think they have also no moral rights entitled to respect. This is the one stain on the character of actor-authors from which not one of them is free, or ever has been free, no matter what his time and nation. From Shakespeare to Brougham, from Molière to Boucicault, the lustre of all their talents has been dimmed by this one dirty vice of filching the product of other men's brains; and the only dramatists free from the reproach have been those who have come to the boards from outside, like Bulwer and Sheridan. I do not here mean to include avowed translations like "Pizarro" and the "Stranger," nor avowed dramatizations of novels like Boucicault's "Heart of Mid Lothian." Such things are not thefts, any more than the use of history for the basis of a novel; they are open to all. But the unavowed stealing of unknown French plays, the surreptitious filching of chapters from forgotten novels, no more becomes right after quoting Shakespeare and Molière as exemplars, than cowardice and treason become noble because St. Peter sneaked out of Caiaphas's petty sessions once on a time.

Spite of this degrading meanness, however, there is no doubt that actor-authors have so far written the greatest number of good plays that hold the stage, in consequence of just one thing, their experience, which reveals itself as the first quality necessary in the dramatist. After experience of the stage, the next qualification that meets us in such dramatists as Shakespeare, Dumas, Lope de Vega, and Boucicault, is their marvellous fecundity of invention, implying an amount of information on various subjects simply amazing. Nothing comes amiss to them, and they seem to have a smattering of every science, to have skimmed the private history of the whole world. Variety of information comes next after stage experience. A man may be a great fool on most subjects, and yet write a fair acting play from stage experience alone, if he filches enough, but if he have plenty of general information, he will be able to double the value of his play, while some plays have been made quite successful by the use of nothing but stage experience and some special line of information, by men who could not have written an original story to save their necks.

Last of the qualifications for dramatic success come ideas, and the possession of ideas implies also genius or at least talent, without which, after all, the really successful dramatist cannot work and leave enduring work behind him. All the ephemeral successes of the stage lack this one element, the one thing that cannot be taught, but must be born in a man. With genius, with real talent, everything is at last possible to a writer ambitious of stage success. Like Bulwer, he may make failure after failure, before he gets the entrée to theatrical life, but once there he will get past the portal and command success at last. Experience and information will be acquired with more or less labor, but he will get them at last, and then will be content to add his voice to the last canon of theatrical conditions to success:

Wild hordes had sacked the minster: scattered

Upon the broken pavement, lay

The crash of blazon'd windows, shattered

By barbarous knights in wanton fray,

Who wrought the wreck and went their way.

Showed where their godless blades had thrust

Profane defiance; and with ashes

Strewn was the altar, and encrust

Was chalice, pyx, and urn with rust.

No incense breathed its hallowed fume;

And as the rudded eve grew dimmer,

Shadows as ghostly as the tomb

Wrapped choir and nave and aisle in gloom.

Far floatings of a chanted hymn,

Up-borne in gusto from floor to ceiling,

As faintly a procession dim

Out of the darkness seemed to swim.

Onward it wended—nor did falter,

Till from their midmost, one cried—"Who

Bethought him of the quenchéd altar?

Alas! how guide the service through?

Would God might light the lamp anew!"

"Amen!" came through the silence drifting:

And from the train, therewith, out stole

A little acolyte, who, lifting

His surplice hem, displayed a coal

That glowed, yet left the garment whole.

"Christus illuminator!" kneeling,

The astonied Bishop cried. "From whom

Can light else come? Thyself revealing.

Flash forth that faith to chase our gloom,

Which burns and yet doth not consume!

"Such faith is thine, O Lambert! Kindle

Thereat the altar-lamp, and let

Its lustre, henceforth, never dwindle!"

He took the coal, the light reset,

And there, they tell, 'tis burning yet.

One of the earliest records of modern history in regard to the race which peopled the old England and the New refers to its beauty. Most of us have heard the story: how three young captives, brought from an almost unknown island on the verge of civilization, and indeed at the western limit of the then known world, were exposed for sale in Rome, and how Gregory the Great, not yet Pope, seeing them, was struck by their beauty and asked what they were, and being told, Angli (English), replied "Non Angli, sed angeli" (not Angles, but angels); which was a tolerable pun for a future Pope and saint. This was twelve hundred years ago; and since that time the English race has enjoyed the reputation (subject to some carping criticism, due to the self-love of other peoples) of being the handsomest in the world. It is well deserved; indeed, if it were not, it would long ago have been jealously extinguished. Not improbably, however, the impression made upon Gregory was greatly due to the fair complexion, blue eyes, and golden brown hair of the English captives, which, indeed, are mentioned in the story. For southern Europe is peopled with dark-skinned, dark-haired races; and the superior beauty of the blonde type was recognized by the painters, who always, from the earliest days, represented angels as of that type. The Devil was painted black so much as a matter of course that his pictured appearance gave rise to a well-known proverb; ordinary mortals were represented as more or less dark; celestial people were white and golden-haired; whence the epithet "divinely fair." When therefore the good Gregory saw the fair, blue-eyed English youths, his comparison was at once suggested, and his pun was almost made to his hand. And I am inclined to believe that it is of much later origin, although he ought to have made it; just as Sidney Smith ought to have said to Landseer, when he asked the Reverend wit to sit for his portrait, "Is thy servant a dog that he should do the thing?" and as the innkeeper ought to have said to Mr. Seward that he was not Governor of New York, but "Thurlow Weed, by thunder?" but did not. In each of these cases, however, and in all such, a significant fact is at the bottom of the story, which otherwise would have no reason for its being.

It is hardly true, however, that other races do not produce individuals approaching as nearly to an ideal standard of beauty as any that are seen among the English. These are found, as we all know, among the various Latin races, the Celts and the Sclaves, and even, as Mr. Julian Hawthorne himself would hardly venture to deny, among the Teutons, the very Saxons themselves. Who has not seen French women and French men, Italians, Spaniards, Russians, Poles, Irish, and even Germans of both sexes, distinguished by striking and captivating personal beauty both of face and figure? But the average beauty of the English race appears to be in a marked degree above that of all others. Among a thousand men and women of that race there will not only be found more "beauties" than among the same number of other races, but the majority will be handsomer, "finer," more symmetrically formed, better featured, with clearer skins, and a more dignified bearing and presence than the majority of any other European race with which they may be compared.

A notion was for some time in vogue that this English distinction did not obtain in America, but that the race had degenerated here. It was a mere notion, having its origin in a prejudiced perversion of isolated facts; in the desire of book-writing travellers to find something strange, and also derogatory, with which to spice their pages; and in a craving, which amounts to a mild insanity, among European people, and particularly among all classes of the British nation, to lay hold of some distinctive "American" quality, whether physiological, literary, political, or other, and label it, and file it away, and pigeon-hole it for reference by way of differencing "Americans" from themselves.

The notion, I venture to say, was essentially absurd. That a race of men should materially change its physical traits in the course of two centuries, under whatever conditions of climate or other external influence, is inconsistent with all that we know upon that subject. The very pyramids protest against it by their pictured records. According to the history of mankind, as it is thus far known to us, such a change could not take place within such a period, unless to external influences of great modifying power there were added such an intermingling of races as has not yet taken place here more than in England itself, although plainly it is to come in future generations. Up to thirty years ago the intermarriage of Yankees—by which name, for lack of another, I designate people of English blood born in this country—with Irish and Germans was so rare as practically, in regard to this question, not to exist; and at that period there was not in England itself a more purely English people than that of New England.

This notion of English degeneracy in "America" has, however, been rapidly dying out in Europe, and even in England during the last ten or fifteen years. The change has been brought about partly by the events of our civil war; for the blindest prejudice saw that that war was not fought by a physically degenerate people; and partly by the increase of knowledge obtained, not from carping travellers writing books to please a carping public, but from personal observation. This I know, not by inference, but from Englishmen and others who have been here, and who have not written books. The belief, formerly prevalent, that "American" women had in their youth pretty doll faces, but at no period of life womanly beauty of figure, is passing away before a knowledge of the truth, and I have heard it scouted here by Englishmen, who, pointing to the charming evidence to the contrary before their eyes, have expressed surprise that the travelling book-writers, who had given them their previous notions on the subject, could have so misrepresented the truth. A colonel in the British army, who had been all over the world, and with whom I was in New England during the war, at a time when a large number of our volunteers were home on furlough, expressed constantly his surprise at the "fine men" he saw going about in uniform, the equals of whom he said that he had never seen as a whole in any army; although he did not hesitate to express his dislike of their uniform, or his disgust at the slouchy, slovenly way in which they carried themselves. I was ready to believe what he said; for I had then just seen the Coldstreams in Montreal; and I had before seen the Spanish regular troops in Cuba, who, even the regiment of the Queen, were so small that they looked to me like toy soldiers to be kept in a box; and a very bad box they soon got into. During my recent visit to England, after I had been in London a week or two, having previously visited other places, a London friend who had twice visited "the States," said to me, "Well, I suppose you've been looking at the people here and comparing them with those you've left at home?" "Yes, of course." "Do you find much difference in them really?" "No; very little; almost none." "You're right—quite right. There may be a little more fulness of figure and a little more ruddiness; but it's been greatly exaggerated—greatly." One reason for this exaggeration I learned from the remarks of two English friends to me in this country. Some years ago I took one, a gentleman who had travelled a good deal, and who held an important position in the Queen's household—and a very outspoken man he was—to a "private view," at which for a wonder there was not a miscellaneous throng, but just enough people to fill the rooms pleasantly. As we sat together after a tour, looking at the company, I asked him to tell me the difference between the people he saw there and those he would see on a like occasion at the Royal Academy. He sat looking around him in silence for so long a time that I thought he was going to pass my question unnoticed, when he said, "I can see no difference; none at all; except that there would not be quite so many pretty women there, and that there would be more stout old people." The other, a lady, who also did not hesitate in her criticisms, remarked that the chief difference in appearance between people of the same condition here and in England was that here she "didn't see any fat old men." She said nothing about fat old women; not, however, that she herself was either fat or old.

There is this difference among old people; although even this has been exaggerated; and it is this which gives a certain color of truth to the notion I have referred to. English men and women do not always grow stout and red-faced as they grow old; but after they have passed middle age more of them do tend to rubicundity and to protuberant rotundity of figure than people of the same age do in "America." The cause, I am quite sure, is simply—beer. Both the color and the rotundity come to a large proportion of the Americans who live in England and drink English beer, in English allowance; which, it need hardly be said, could not be the case if there had been any essential change in the type of the race. But among men under forty and women under thirty, the difference either in complexion or figure is almost inappreciable.

As to the women, there are at least as many in England who are spare and angular of figure as here, and of those who have not passed thirty I think rather more. The London "Spectator" said some years ago, in discussing the Banting diet, I believe, that "scragginess was more common in England among women than stoutness"; and it is remarkable that the French caricatures of Englishwomen always represent them as thin, bony, and sharp-featured. In this of course there is a little malice; but it shows the impression left upon the French people by their near neighbors. I cannot do better here than to offer my readers, in the following passage, a share in one of my letters written home; it has at least the advantage of recording on the spot impressions received by me after careful examination under the most favorable circumstances. I was writing about the beauty of the parks:

"It is amazing to see the great space of this little island that these English folk have reserved for air, and health, and beauty; and it is for all, the poorest and meanest as well as the richest and noblest; there are no privileged classes in this. As to the effect upon their health, I suppose it must be something, but it shows for very little. G—— [a gentleman who is very strong upon the subject of degeneracy, which I have always doubted] will laugh and say that it was a foregone conclusion with me, but to set aside my inference he will be obliged to take the position that there is nothing so misleading as facts, except figures. I have now seen many hundreds of thousands of Englishmen and Englishwomen of all classes. I have placed myself in positions to examine them closely. At the great Birmingham musical festival my seat gave me full view of the house, chorus and all. The vast hall was filled with people of the middle and upper middle classes, and at one end with members of the highest aristocracy, who occupied seats roped off from the rest, and called 'the President's seats'—the President being the Marquis of Hertford. At the end of the performance, both evening and morning, I hastened to a place where a great part of the audience would pass close before me. At Westminster Abbey I stood again and again at the principal door and watched the congregation as they came out; I have done the same in swarming railway stations; I have walked through country villages and cathedral towns; I know the human physiognomy of all quarters of London pretty well; I have seen the Guards and the heavy dragoons, and I say without any hesitation that thus far I find that the men and the women are generally smaller and less robust than ours, and above all that the women are on the whole sparer and less blooming than ours. The men are ruddier on the whole; that is, there are more ruddy men here; but the number of men without color in their cheeks seems to be nearly the same as with us. The apparent inconsistency of what I have said is due to the fact that the ruddy men and women here are generally so very red that they produce a great impression of redness, an impression that lasts and remains salient in the memory. A delicately graduated and healthy bloom is not very common. And so the fat women are so very fat that they seem to take up a great part of the island. But the little London 'gent,' with whom Leech has made us so familiar, you meet everywhere in the great city. Sunday before last, loitering in the cloisters of Westminster, I stopped to look at a tablet in the wall. There were three of these men before me, and the number soon increased to seven. I looked over the hats—round felt hats—of the whole seven without raising my chin. I remember that like Rosalind I am 'more than common tall,' but I never did anything like that at home. At the Horse Guards they put their finest men as sentinels, mounted, on each side of the gate. Well, they are fine fellows, and would be very uncomfortable chaps to meet, except in a friendly way; a detachment of them riding up St. James's street the other morning, with their cuirasses like mirrors, and the coats of their big black horses almost as bright, was a spectacle which it seemed to me could not be surpassed for its union of military splendor and the promise of bitter business in a fight; but Maine, or Vermont, or Connecticut, or Kentucky can turn out whole regiments of bigger and stronger men. Colonel M——, whom I met in Canada, said the same to me when he thought he was talking to an Englishman. I wonder that he ever forgave me the things he said to me during his brief self-deception; for they were true. But he was a good fellow and bore no malice. Nevertheless, you sometimes meet here a very fine man, or a big, blooming beauty, and in either case the impression is stronger and more memorable than in a like case it is apt to be with us; chiefly, I think, because of their dress and 'set up,' which in such cases—as in that of the Guards and Dragoons—is apt to be very pronounced."

I will add here, in passing, that this English "set up," particularly in the case of almost all Englishmen of any pretensions, is distinctive, and is in a great measure the cause of the impression of superior good looks and strength on their side. It appears in a marked degree in all military persons, rank and file as well as officers, and in the police force, the men of which are on the whole inferior in stature and bulk to ours—leaving the big Broadway squad, most of them Yankees, out of the question—and yet it is far superior in appearance to ours, owing to the "set up" of the men, and the way in which they carry themselves. I observed that although the upper classes contained a fair proportion, although no notable excess, of large and well-formed men and women, the burly men and the big-bodied, heavy-limbed women were generally of the lower and the lower middle class. This made me wonder where all the pretty housemaids and shop girls came from; for the prettiest faces, the most delicately blooming complexions, and the finest figures that I saw in England were among them. In a letter written from the Rose Inn at Canterbury, a cosy comfortable old hostlery, I find the following passage, which is to the purpose:

"I ate my bacon and eggs this morning in the coffee room, where at another table were three queer Englishwomen, yet nice looking—apparently a mother and two daughters. The elder daughter was, I will not say a lathy girl, but very slim not only in the waist, but above and below it. The mother and the younger were plump and rosy, absurdly alike, and with that cocked-up nose which is one of the very few distinctive peculiarities of figure that you see here, but even this very rarely; and their black hair was curled in tight curls all over their heads. I was struck by this, because curling hair is comparatively rare here, and I had expected to find it common. It was cut just like a man's, and plainly so because it would have been impossible to dress it if it were allowed to grow long in woman fashion. They were very jolly and pleasant, chaffing each other in low, soft voices, and breaking out in rich, sweet laughter. They looked just like boys masquerading in women's clothes; for the eldest was quite young looking and may have been an elder sister. The youngest, who was some seventeen or eighteen years old, looked very fair and blooming across the room, but when I came close to her, which I had an opportunity of doing, I found that her color, both white and red, was coarse, which is very often the case here when there is color. In the mother, or eldest sister, this coarseness was apparent even at a distance. But see, Lady —— and her daughters, although pretty and elegant, had no tinge of color in their cheeks, and they were all as thin as rails, and the girls' hair, as well as their mother's, was as straight as fiddle strings. I came here expecting to see golden curls in plentiful crops, or at least not uncommonly. But it seems to me that I haven't seen a dozen curly-haired children since I have been in the country; and I have seen them—the children—by tens of thousands, and examined them closely, making memorandums of my observation. Nor have the ladies of this family (I am now at ——), Lady —— and Mrs. ——, any more bloom than this paper, and they are both as thin as Lady —— and her daughters; Mrs. —— painfully so. The men, belonging of course to another family, are stout, well-built fellows enough, but the two other guests are as lean as greyhounds. I went to a little dinner party the other evening, and the carriage sent to the station for me (for they think nothing here of asking you fifteen or twenty miles to dinner even when you are not expected to stay over night) took also a Major General Sir —— ——. I was told that he would join me, and I expected to see a portly, ruddy man of inches, with sweeping whiskers and moustache. I found a short, slender, meek-looking, pale-faced man; but his bearing was very military; he was a charming companion and the pink of courtesy. We entered the drawing-room together of course; but notwithstanding his rank, he waved me in before him, and my plain Mistership was announced before his titles. I have seen no men here at all equal in face or figure to General Hooker, General Hancock, General Augur, or General Terry, to say nothing of General Scott, who was something out of the common even with us. And Burnside, and McDowell, and Grant, and McClellan are all stouter men than you are apt to find here. The biggest men that I have seen were from the north, Yorkshire and Northumberland. Those of the south, particularly in Kent, are the shortest; although, as a Kent man said to me, they are generally 'stocky.'"3

A New England man now living in England, who made his house very delightful to me, first by the presence of himself and his family, and next by the kindest and most considerate hospitality, is an ever present rebuke of the stoutest sort to the British notion of the physical degeneracy of the English race in "America." He, a Yankee of the old Puritan emigration, is five feet ten and a half inches high, is forty-eight inches, four good feet, in girth around the chest, weighs two hundred pounds, and yet has not the least appearance of portliness, rather the contrary. He is the only man I ever met whose friendly grip was rather more than I liked to bear. I spoke to his wife about his strength and his figure, and she told me that when he went to get his life insured here the surgeons said that they very rarely saw such a powerful, finely formed, and perfectly healthy man as he is, and never any finer or healthier. That would be impossible. And as he is so was his father. Were they exceptions? Only of a sort that constantly occur among real Yankees—"Americans" whose families have been in the country for generations, and who are the only proper examples of the influence of the climate and the social conditions of the country.

I have, perhaps, said too much upon this subject of the comparative physical condition of the race in the two countries; but I have been led to do so because of the very great inconsistency I found between the facts and the common notion as to stout Englishmen and lean "Americans," blooming, buxom Englishwomen and pale, slender "American" women—a notion which one writer has repeated, parrot-like, after the other, until even we ourselves have accepted it without question. Like many other notions which no one disputes, it is false. But the world has gone on accepting it and assuming it to be true until it has so taken possession of the general mind that if in a room full of English people only one man were found ruddy and burly, and only one woman blooming and well rounded (and this or something very like it I have seen more than once), they would be picked out and spoken of as English-looking, to the disregard of all the others. The exceptions would be taken as examples of the rule; and this even by the English themselves, so swayed are we by tradition and authority, even in such an everyday matter. Nay, even I myself, skeptical and carping, was thus misled. The steamer, going out, was filled chiefly with English people. Two of my fellow passengers I selected in my mind as notably and typically English, not only in person, but in bearing. They proved to be, one a Massachusetts Yankee and the other a Western man; but both had from association contracted English habits of dress and of manner. Two Englishwomen, however, attracted my particular attention. One was, I think, the very largest human female I ever saw outside of a caravan. She was a fearful manifestation of the enormous development of solid flesh which the British fair sometimes attain. As she stood by her husband she was the taller from the ear upward. She weighed about twenty stone. I think that a plumb line dropped from the front of her corsage would have reached the deck without touching her skirts. Her tread was hippopotamic. And yet she showed traces of beauty, and not improbably had been a fine fair girl; and even at the present time she managed to effect a very palpable waist. I mused wonderingly upon the process by which she did this; but still more upon that sad gradual enormification by which she passed from a tall blooming beauty into her present tremendous proportions. The other was exactly the reverse. She could hardly be called ill looking in the face, but her pale, blank, unfeatured countenance reminded one instantly of a sheep. She was a washed-out, and although young, a faded creature, with no more shoulders or hips than my forefinger. And yet she was a perfect English type, and so like some of John Leech's women that I could not look at her without internal laughter. Her husband—for even such women by some mysterious process known to themselves will get husbands—was like unto her in face, in feature, and in expression; and yet he was so strikingly, so aggressively British in look and in manner that I heard some Yankees on board say that they would like to kick him. And I somewhat shared their prejudice; of which before we landed I learned to be ashamed; for I found him a very intelligent, well-informed, pleasant man, reserved in his manners, and although firm in his opinions, which were strongly British, very respectful of other men's, and very careful of giving offence. His union of firmness and courtesy seemed to me worthy of admiration; and if he did wish to kick any of the Yankees on board, for which in one or two cases I could have forgiven him, I am sure that he never let the desire manifest itself in their presence.

Another prevalent notion, which is reciprocal between the people of the two countries, is mistaken according to my observation. It is generally believed, or at least very often said in "America," that the men in England are very much handsomer than the women; and conversely it is commonly believed in England, or said, that the women in "America" are handsomer than the men. An absurd and truly preposterous notion, as will be seen upon a moment's reflection. For the women in both countries are the mothers of both the men and the women; and the men are the fathers of both the men and the women; and as some of the women are of their fathers' types and some of the men of their mothers', the imputed difference of the two in personal beauty could not be brought about. It is physiologically impossible that the women of a race should be handsomer than the men, and vice versa.

It is nevertheless true that the men in England are on the whole more attractive to the eye than the women, and that the women in "America" are generally much more attractive than the men. The cause of this is a fact very distinctive of the social surface of the two countries. I have spoken of the "set up" and the bearing of the men in England. It is very remarkable, and is far superior to anything of the kind that is found even among the most cultivated people in this country, except in comparatively rare individual cases. But in England it is common; it is the rule. There, from the middle classes up, a slovenly man is a rare exception. There men are almost universally neat and tidy, and they carry themselves with a conscious self-respect. They do not slouch. They do not go about, even in the morning, with coats unbuttoned, skirts flying, and their hands in their overcoat pockets. They dress soberly, quietly, with manly simplicity, but almost always in good taste, and with notable neatness. They are manly looking men, with an air of conscious manhood. Moreover, in England the man is still recognized as the superior. England has been called the purgatory of horses and the paradise of women. But that saying came from the continent of Europe, where women, except in the very highest and most cultivated classes, are not treated with that tenderness and consideration for their weakness and their womanly functions which I am inclined to think is somewhat peculiar to the English race. I should call England the paradise of men; for there the world is made for them; and women are happy in making it so. An Englishman who is the head of a family is not only master of his house, but of the whole household. His will is recognized as the law of that household. No one thinks of disputing it. It is not deemed unreasonable that in the house which he provides and keeps up his comfort and his convenience should be first considered, or that, as he is responsible for his household both to the law and to society, authority should go with responsibility. And yet—perhaps for this very reason—wives there have the household affairs more absolutely in their hands than they have here. A man whose absolute authority is acknowledged, practically as well as theoretically, is very ready to make concessions and to rid himself of what at any time he may assume. Real monarchs, like the Czars or like the Tudors, are careless of the protection of royal etiquette. The consciousness of this acknowledged or rather unquestioned superiority shows itself in the men's faces, and in their bearing, simple and unpretending as their manner is. Besides all this, men in England (I am leaving out of consideration the lower classes) show the effect of cultivation, of breeding, of discipline. Even in the middle classes they are well informed, and, what is of more importance to the present question, they have been taught to behave themselves respectfully to others. They do so behave; they feel that they ought to do so and that they must. There are two gods worshipped in England, and one is propriety; and a very good god he is, when he is not made a Juggernaut. The result of all this is a very different man in appearance from him who generally pervades "America." The latter may be, and generally is, as handsome physically as the former; he may be, and generally is, as good morally; but the one generally shows for all that he is and perhaps for more, and the other does not, and frequently does for less. And yet again; among such men in England another sort who, for example, say "hadn't oughter," and "have came," and who spit upon the floor, are not generally found mingling. They are kept in social pens by themselves. And thus in judging of English society they are left out.

A comparative estimate of Englishwomen is too serious and far too complicated a subject to be treated except in an article by itself.

"I do not know how it is with others," said the spirit, looking away from the Sunday child to the red and spectral moon that was arising from the tossing ocean into a mass of heavy, broken clouds; "for since my death I have been alone; but when I left my human form I left few of the affections, the passions of life, and thus death has made but little change in me. I cannot believe, however, that all the dead carry as much of their old life into the new as I have, for few can be cursed as I have been with a granted prayer. What my life in the world of spirits might have been I cannot tell you; but I know that all I have suffered comes from my folly, my wickedness in praying for my own will! But my life upon earth had been so complete, so happy, it seemed as if I might be justified in thinking that it ought to give me the same bliss if it was made eternal. My love for Philip was so pure and true that it seemed as fit that it should govern me in one life as in the other! Other women, I suppose, have loved their husbands as well; but few would have had the temerity to stake their eternal happiness on human fidelity as I did! But my love was a part of my being, and I thought no more of its extent or duration than of the density of the air I breathed. It was never put to the test of neglect or misunderstanding, and was never subject to question. Looking back now, it seems impossible that I ever lived without Philip; for all my days before I knew him are but fragments of a half-forgotten time. Of his love I had no doubt. It satisfied me. And we were not only lovers, but also comrades. I was but an amateur where he was a master, but I followed him attentively, eagerly. I like to remember those days, when we wandered like children through the woods, when we climbed, sketched, laughed, and sang together, and I often wonder if any mortals are as happy now. At home we had our hours of work, of merry talk, and happy plans. We had the excitements of the exhibition days, the pleasures of social life, and then we had also my dear little girl, our Nellie! Sometimes I fancy that such happiness cannot die; that if our words and actions perpetuate themselves, such vivid experiences cannot fade away, and that I may some time find it all passed into an eternal form! But these are dreams; for every thing has changed, and I know that nothing can be eternal that is not based upon truth, upon faithfulness.

"You can understand, although you are so young, and are just learning how love transfigures everything, that my life with my husband was so complete that we did not dream of any change; we did not comprehend that we could ever be parted. I have heard women say that they have trembled when they were very happy, knowing that there must be an end to their joy; but I had no such fears. Still it came to me, and in a horrible shape.

"I knew that I was very ill, and that Philip was anxious and wretched, but I never thought that I might die. My fierce pain gave me no hint of death, and so it came almost without warning. I would not believe that I must go away, and that this brief illness meant death was incredible, preposterous! I shrank from thinking of it; I cried out that I would not die; I would not leave Philip! I begged my physicians for life; I entreated Heaven to spare me; I almost broke my husband's heart by my wild cries for life. It was a bitter struggle! I prayed for annihilation—for anything but the knowledge that we were separated. Do not think that I forgot Nellie, or that I did not grieve to part with her; but other mothers have loved their children for the father's sake, and I could have surrendered anything to have kept him. I could trust her to a Higher love, but for us there was nothing but daily, hourly union.

"The night before I died—for who can thrust away the inevitable!—I lay close in Philip's arms as he knelt by my bedside. I was almost helpless, but I clung body and soul to him. It was poor comfort to tell each other that this was but a temporary separation; that we had yet an eternity in which to live together. Eternity was indefinite and far away, while our parting, his lonely life, my waiting hours, were so near. I cannot forget how he wept as he held me close, closer to him, and how his courage failed as he realized how fast my hour of departure was hastening to us! I do not now know how it was that we did not die together that night! We talked of it, and it seemed so easy and natural that we thought we could not help it; but the daylight came, and we were still alive, clinging to each other.

"But this night of agony did more than death alone could have done, for it shaped my future. Out of our frantic grief there came a prayer that has fixed me here, and which has taught me of what love is made! Together that night we besought Heaven to give me no other happiness than that I had known in life, but to let me linger near my home, and be with my husband until he died. I cried out that any other existence would be hell to me; and with desperate hands we beat against the doors of prayer, and pleaded for power to choose our own future.

"The next night I died. All day I had laid on my bed passive and quiet. My grief had worn me out, and I could not have spoken had I wished. Philip sat by me holding my hand, but he too was silent. I felt vaguely that mine was the easier task; that living could be harder than dying; but I had no words with which to comfort or strengthen him. I could faintly smile when he would bend his head, and kiss my nerveless hand, and I wondered if he knew how much I liked to lie quietly and look at him. Yet I did not care for it all! I remember the watchful indifference with which I regarded my physician's face, and followed the motions of the nurse about the room. I remember my sister's tears, and how little Nellie sat by me on the bed with her doll, until she fell asleep on my pillow. I remember how the hours measured themselves away, how the sunshine deepened and faded, how the night came, and all grew dim and silent. An absolute hush rested upon the earth. The fire blazed, but it had ceased its crackling; the watchers moved noiselessly about the room, the street had become quiet, and everything seemed awaiting some coming, some solemn change. As Philip leaned over me, and I saw his lips move, but heard no sound, I fancied that perhaps my hearing had gone from me, but I cared nothing for it! Then the fire grew dim, the room seemed full of shadows, the lights faded away, and my eyes became heavy, but I did not care to shut them, or to brush away the film that covered them. My breath gained substance, and began to push its way through my lungs, my throat seemed closing, and then suddenly everything changed!

"It is not to my purpose, even were I allowed, to tell you anything of the conditions of my present life, or to explain to you how I can reveal myself to you, and why it was that Philip could never see me. All that I am to tell you is connected with this earth.

"After the first surprise was over I turned to Philip, who was kneeling by the bed. He could not believe that I was dead, but called vehemently on me to look at him. I remember the joy with which I sprang to his side, and putting my arms around, tried to turn his head away from the dead body to my living, happy face! But it was all in vain, in vain! He was deaf, he was blind to me! Our prayer, our compact was as nothing: he knew only the dead wife! I was as indifferent to the body as to a shadow on the wall; but to be clinging to him unrecognized, unfelt, terrified me, shocked me! I cannot dwell on this, but after all was over, and the body carried away, he was still ignorant of my presence. I followed his aimless steps through the house; I stood by his chair as he sat idly at his easel; I watched with him through the long nights, but he never suspected that I was there! How often when he has called me have I answered, and when he has prayed for one glimpse of me have I clung to him, but had no sign from him to tell me that he even blindly guessed that our prayer might have been granted! I have put my arms around him; my head has lain upon his shoulder; I have passionately called upon him, but still been as empty air! Yet it comforted me to be with him, and I could not doubt that some time he would come to know of my presence. It was impossible, I thought, for him to dwell in such an atmosphere of love and always be unconscious of it. Why, we thought only of each other, we longed only for each other, and so he must at last come to know how near I was, and then, I thought with joy, waiting would lose its pain!

"I could laugh as I now think of this fond and foolish fancy—of my trust in time, in a man's intuition! Why, I did not even know that men do not nurse grief as we do; and I was surprised by Philip's resolute bravery in turning to work, and trying to forget in study all he had lost in love. But do not think it was easy for him! I was much too intimately connected with his art not to be always suggested by it; and my dumb and unknown presence awakened none of the old inspiration of our talks, our mutual sympathy and interest. Sometimes his desire for me became so intense that I felt that my time for recognition had surely come, and I have knelt, clinging to him, waiting for that blessed smile of knowledge, but all in vain!

"Time, however, smoothes all griefs for mortals, and soon life began to run tranquilly in the house. Nellie was happy in my sister's care, and Philip became absorbed in work. The old sparkle and gayety was gone, but youth and vigor were left, so they lived pleasantly enough, and I wandered through the rooms lonely, but not forlorn. I could not be miserable, for I was ever with them. And I could not but be happy in seeing how tenderly I was remembered, how constantly I was thought of by them all. Nothing was changed, for even my work-basket kept its place in Philip's room, and some of my ribbons were still tumbled in with his collars! Thus some years passed away. Nellie grew tall and pretty, and Philip became graver, more studious, and was as famous as he was popular. I do not believe that he ever thought of making any change in his life, of filling my place in his home or heart. I never dreamed it was possible! But ignorance is a poor safeguard, and at last the time came when the shadow began to lift from off his life, to deepen over mine. I do not know how to tell you more; the thought of speaking of it almost strikes me dumb; but I must, I must! I am compelled to do it! And it all came of a picture—a picture of youth and beauty; and she—Esther—came to sit for it! You need not expect me to tell you much of her, for some things are impossible; but she had been as a schoolgirl a pet of mine. She was the daughter of a friend, and she was pretty; she was rich; she was good and loving: what else could any mortal ask for? These quiet hours in the studio were pleasant to both of them, and one day Philip broke the silence of years and spoke of me to her. She was glad to talk of me, for she had been fond of me; and she told him of what I had said to her; she brought him a little drawing I had made of Nellie for her. They spoke of me lovingly and gently, but I stood off and wrung my hands in anguish. The most cruel silence would have been better than these confidences which brought them so close together.

"But what a wonderful picture he painted! How fair, how lovely she looked upon the canvas, and how happy she was when the painting was praised! She danced for joy when she first saw it in its frame; but I—I who knew so well what a success it was—I did not rejoice! I did not look at the picture, but instead I watched the soft and tender smile with which Philip regarded her! Need I tell you more?" she said in a husky voice, standing up and clenching her hands. "Must I repeat the history of these days as though it was a story I was telling you! Have I not suffered penance enough in witnessing a grief I could not comfort, a resignation that I could not share, and a happiness that has made me desperate; but must I also put it all into words? But there was one trial spared me. I did not have to witness the growth of this new love, for I rarely saw them together during the days of courtship. She did not come often to the house after the picture was finished, and so I escaped this much. Yet I knew when they saw each other, and he was no laggard wooer. I never followed him or her, for I could not leave the home where we had lived; but in thought I was never parted from him. How often have I paced the floor in lonely agony, waiting for his return from her house. I have crouched in the corner, fearing, yet eager to see him enter with the new happiness in his eye, the new elasticity in his step. I saw him grow brighter and gayer; and as he whistled or sang at his work I have fled away in helpless agony. Yet he had not forgotten me; and in the midst of the new life that was thrilling through him I was still dear to him. I cannot pretend to understand a man's love, nor to tell you how faithfulness to an old affection, and desire for one that is new, can dwell in the same heart. He thought of me tenderly. I was a part of a past too dear to be forgotten; but I did not belong to the present. He had lived without me, and I was no longer necessary to him, but this younger love was very near and real to him.

"At last he brought her home, and with many smiles and happy glances he led Nellie to her new mother. It seemed very proper to the people who filled the house that her grace and youth should mate with his dignity and reputation, and that they should love each other; but none of them saw, few thought of the disembodied wife who was still chained to his side by links he had helped to forge, and who, standing unsuspected in their midst, cursed—not the bride nor her husband—but her own immorality.

"Yet as I watched the merriment with a most bitter scorn of my suffering, and a fancy how Philip might well paint a love dancing on a coffin for his next picture, I yet felt glad to know that I had not been the one who was false to that dreadful night of vows and prayers. If he had died, I would have been faithful. My need of love would have been as great; I might have longed for protection, for even bread; but I would have had no other husband. I was glad, for it is well to be faithful. A new love may bring new sweetness and content, but constancy has its own sweet rewards, and the widowed heart would seek no strange hand if it did but know what remains to those who are true.

"This was years ago as you count time; but until to-night I have lingered around my home—my old home that was changed and beautified for another mistress. I have nothing to tell you of their life, that does not seem to men to be pleasant. They have been prosperous. They have known many joys and few sorrows. They have travelled. He is famous and he is also rich. Is that not enough? And Nellie, too, has been content. Esther has not allowed the child to miss me; and although other children claim equal love from her father, they have never robbed her. Is not this best? your questioning eyes ask me. Perhaps it is. I have often taken my jealous heart to task; and remembering how solitary Philip's home would have been, how much he has gained in these new loves, I have tried to say it was the best. But he was not bound to me only for life—for my life. Our love reached out toward the other world and swore eternal fidelity, and I—I have not been freed from him.

"But this is not all. I might reconcile myself to this and be content. I love Philip so truly that I think I could sacrifice my dearest, most selfish wishes to him, and be satisfied to see him prosperous and happy. But whether it is a keener sight that I possess, whether it is a natural change that comes to all who submit to the influence of the world, I know not; but Philip is not the same artist—he is not the same man; but this, I think, no one knows; that his pictures have changed is clear to all. Once he worked for the sake of the best; now he works for 'success'; and Esther rates his paintings at the price they bring. But had I lived even this might have been. Yet this is not all. The sting, the bitterness of my bereavement is in my knowledge that we are parted for ever. If Philip had not grown so far away from me in the years in which he has not known me, I could expect some happy reunion with him; but this man will need me no more in Heaven than he now does upon earth. If I could now return to him and take Esther's place by his side, I would jar upon him, displease him. He might love me, but there would be little affinity between us. And I—have I not changed? has not my ignorance turned to bitterness, my confidence to disbelief? But it seems to me that a little sunshine would bring back all that was sweet or good in me—yet I cannot tell. But this I know: in the future the soul of this man will lay no claim to mine. We get nothing without its price, and Philip has paid for a second love by the loss of all he once thought dearest. Still it may be best, it may be right.

"As for myself, some change is coming to me. It must be so, or I would not be here to-night. You know what perhaps is to occur; you know how long I was to linger; but of this I cannot speak. If I shall never see him again, do you think I can talk of it?

"But, child, it fills me with wonder as I think that the spirit world in which I have so long dwelt, of which I know nothing, is now, perhaps, to be revealed to me. I have no fear of it. I believe that when I enter Paradise—and I cannot believe that its doors are for ever closed against me—that in some way the lost love of my husband, the misled affection of my child, will be made up to me. Heaven defrauds us of nothing; and as we are created to love and be loved, is it not true that there must be compensation somewhere if it is torn from us, or denied to us?

"But be that as it may," she said, looking down upon her companion with sad and tender eyes. "You are a woman, and I have a charge to give you. I warn you, child, that your love to Heaven cannot be too strong; your love for man too true; but while you give to man the sweetness and comfort of your life, you must look to Heaven alone for faithfulness."

When the girl looked up again, the morning star shone over the sea, a fresh wind blew out of the yellowing sky, but she was alone upon the sands.

Reading, the other day, in Mr. Stigand's interesting "Life of Heine," about the young poet's discontent in Germany, about his long desire to quit that country and to live in France, and of his final hegira to Paris, it occurred to me that he might be described, not too fancifully, as having been born away from home. How many have had the same fortune, whether for good or ill. But the happier class is the contrasting one, that of persons who have never suffered from the stress of the migrating instinct; and surely it is a fortunate thing to be born in one's own place, as Lamb was born in London, to grow in the fit soil, to lose no time in striking root. Lamb was the happiest of men in this respect. A true child of the city, he held that London was a better place to be born in than any part of the country. "A garden," he writes to Wordsworth, "was the primitive prison, till man, with Promethean boldness and felicity, luckily sinned himself out of it." For garden if we read farm in this passage, we have, perhaps, a statement of the feeling which prompts our own country people, and more and more with successive years, to leave the country and come to the city—to crowd the towns and desert the fields. Lamb says again—and one almost trembles to see him thus defying the "poet of nature" to his face—"Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life.... I do not envy you. I should pity you did I not know that the mind will make friends with anything." But Wordsworth, the Laker, was quite as clearly born at home as Lamb, the Londoner; and, as we know, he came back to his native hills after no long wanderings, not to quit them again. It is because Lamb hardly wandered at all that he seems so truly autochthonous, so peculiarly a child of the soil. He struck deep root into the intellectual alluvium of London, and until he was fifty years old he suffered nothing from transplantation except when he changed his lodgings or paid his somewhat reluctant visits to friends in the country; and when, at fifty, he ventured away from London, it was no further than to the margin of the city of Paradise—to Enfield, Edmonton—the latter a place which he calls "a little teasing image of a town," where "the country folks do not look like country folks," and where "the very blackguards are degenerate." It was only in London that Lamb's spirit really nourished itself and grew.

And why is it in old countries that the mind seems to strike its most vigorous fibres into the soil, to draw up its most potent juices, bringing to blossom such flowers as Wordsworth's "Poems of Childhood," such pansies as Elia's thoughts? Lamb suggests country images; even though he was of the city, his essays have an outdoor freshness and tenderness. They take us into the open fields, and show us the soft counterchange of shadows and sunlight, bright spaces and pursuing swarths of shade. And where did he learn the longing homesickness of a child for the country? "How I would wake weeping," Elia says, "and in the anguish of my heart exclaim upon sweet Calne, in Wiltshire!" Whether in country or city, surely it is in old lands that one gets the fullest home feeling, the complete benefits of soil, and atmosphere, and acquaintance with the various geniuses of the place. Would that we had been Londoners, we say, to know the ancient streets, or Parisians for the sake of the great libraries and of Notre Dame!

That, however, is but a melancholy utinam; there has been no lack of fortunate migrations among people who have been born far away from their fitting homes, and who have found their way thither in course of time. So the "rising young men" of our own colonial days returned to England to make their career; and sometimes we may trace the features of their childhood's "environment" in their developed genius. Our painters, for whom the new country was not yet a quite satisfactory place, displayed perhaps the strongest homing tendency. Copley, West, and Stuart, for instance, all American born, had to seek an older home of art. West returned in youth to England, and Copley in early manhood; there they made their careers, there they lived and died; while Stuart, after passing fifteen years in Europe, came back to settle in America. But none of these artists quite severed himself from his native country. American themes served each of them for some of his best known works: as in Stuart's famous "Washington," West's "Death of General Wolfe," and Copley's first historical picture, so called, the "Youth Rescued from a Shark."4

There, too, was Copley's son, born, like his father, in New England. In 1774 he was taken to London, where he too made his career, a distinguished one; for the Boston boy lived to become Baron Lyndhurst and Lord Chancellor. But as the eminent nobleman to be, at the time of his demigration, was but two years old, it is difficult to point out any traits of distinctively American statesmanship in his career.

And that other American nobleman, Count Rumford, of whom Mr. Ellis has recently written the first good biography—his was a notable case of birth away from home. It is a little odd to think of the famous Count Rumford, Franklin's compeer in genius, and born but a few miles from Franklin's birthplace, as plain Benjamin Thompson of North Woburn, Massachusetts. His parents were plain New England people, but he was ambitious, and had a handsome person; he had, too, what his neighbors might have called "uppish" ways; for he pretended to peculiar knowledge, and was always making strange researches and experiments; in short, I fear that he was not quite enough of a democrat to suit his neighbors. There was a distinction about him that they did not like; he was too original in his character and tastes; and consequently he was a marked man in that community. His fortunes seemed well enough, I presume, when, at twenty, he quitted school-teaching to marry a rich widow, thirteen years older than himself, Sarah Rolfe of Concord, New Hampshire; appearing on the wedding day, it is noted, in a splendid scarlet suit, to the astonishment and scandal of the young man's friends. But that was in 1772, and his troubles were not far ahead. At the outbreak of the colonial quarrel he was accused of being a Tory, and charged with disloyalty to the American cause. He protested his innocence in vain. He was arrested, tried—and acquitted; for nothing could be proven against him. Indeed, there was nothing to prove; it was his character that was the real cause of offence to the good people of Concord. They were not tolerant of superiority; and there must have been an intolerable superiority in young Thompson's personal beauty, in his manners, in his passion for study and scientific experiment. In spite of his acquittal, he remained un homme suspect; and finally the Concord mob visited his house to take their will of him; but he had fled, never to return. Had he not been forewarned, I fear there would never have been any Count Rumford. The patriots of Concord might not have put him to death, but one does not easily make noblemen of persons who have been tarred and feathered. It is better to admit a tradesman now and then, or even a dentist, to the ranks of the nobility, as it has happened to some of our countrymen more recently. Very luckily, then, young Thompson escaped the tar and feathers; at twenty-two he left family, home, and estate, and fled from the Concord mob, never to return. His property was confiscated, and in August, 1775, after having suffered imprisonment as a Tory, he decided to quit the country. One would think that he had sufficient reasons. He wrote thus to his father-in-law: "I am determined," he says, "to seek for that peace and protection in foreign lands, and among strangers, which is deny'd me in my native country. I cannot any longer bear the insults that are daily offered me. I cannot bear to be looked upon and treated as the Achan of society." Thompson showed a true instinct for the opportunity in choosing this course. He entered the British service, and thenceforward, says Mr. Ellis, "the rustic youth became the companion of gentlemen of wealth and culture, of scientific philosophers, of the nobility, and of princes." Perhaps it gives a wrong impression to speak of him as a "rustic youth"; for besides a winning address, we are told that he had "a noble and imposing figure," and that he was a natural courtier; so that the familiar story of his rapid promotion is not surprising. Under-Secretary of State at twenty-eight, he was knighted by George III. at thirty; and eight years later, by the pleasure of the King of Bavaria, Benjamin Thompson, of Woburn, Massachusetts, was transformed into Count Rumford, having already taken rank as a European celebrity. But he did not forget his early home and friends, and it is pleasant to find him deriving his title from the name given to Concord by the early settlers—a name, by the way, that these patriots misspelled from Romford, the village near London whence some of them came.

Sir Benjamin Thompson, Count Rumford, never saw America or Sarah Rolfe again. He never saw his only daughter, born after his flight from Concord, until, at the age of twenty, she too left the forests of New England to meet him in London. From the Continent she wrote those interesting letters which his biographer has made accessible, the record of a singular experience—that of a bright but untrained New England girl introduced, without the least preparation, to courtly European life. She relates her blunders and misadventures very frankly; how she filled her father with consternation by making her best courtesy to a housekeeper; how she ordered costly goods without inquiring the prices; how—but I see that this naïve young woman is likely to lead us from our subject, for Miss Thompson evidently went away from home when she left New England.

As for her father, he lived to marry a second widow, the brilliant and distinguished woman who had been the wife of Lavoisier. We cannot say that Count Rumford's good fortune kept to him in the matter of this second marriage. It was an unhappy one; it reminds us of Dr. Johnson's genial remark that second marriages are made to illustrate "the triumph of hope over experience." My lord and my lady did not suit each other; they quarrelled in the midst of their splendor, and in ways not always the most decorous. Poor Benjamin Thompson! I fancy that after Madame had "poured hot water" on the choicest flowers in your garden, you wished that you were taking your ease in Concord again, the Revolution being now safely ended, and no further question of tar and feathers being likely to arise!

Alexander Hamilton was another eminent American who migrated in search of a home; but seeking, not quitting, our dear country. Born of English parentage in another British colony, the West Indies, he spent his boyhood cursing the fate which had doomed him, apparently, to what he called the "grovelling condition of a clerk" in the North Caribbee islands. He longed to escape from trade; boy-like, he longed for a war, for the opportunity of distinction in affairs. Nor did he have to wait until age, or even until maturity, for verification of the saying of his contemporary, Goethe, about the final fulfilment of the desires of youth. What Hamilton desired in boyhood came to him promptly, almost as by the rubbing of the lamp. We all know the story: how at fifteen he found his way to New Jersey, whence extricating himself he went to Columbia college; and how, while he was there, the Revolutionary war broke out, making the lad drop his books at once to accept his appointment as a major of artillery; and how naturally his career flowed from that initial point. And in our own times Thackeray was another product of a British colony, having been born in Calcutta, and spending the first seven years of his childhood there. I will not venture to say that I trace much colonial influence in his writings. He may have been a true Indian at heart, but his novels are certainly those of a club-man and a Londoner; and none of his essays disclose very much of the Hindoo. Sainte-Claire Deville, again, one of the truest of Frenchmen, was born, like Hamilton, in the Antilles.

But how many have there been who never found a real home, though they sought it painfully and with tears! Byron, the predestinate wanderer, and Rousseau, who never found rest, who complained that his birth was but the beginning of his misfortunes, le premier de mes malheurs—these are types of the less fortunate class. But we need not multiply examples; it is the old story of wandering and homelessness. How often is the homing effort made in vain! One would fancy the air filled with piloting spirits that endeavor to find ways of escape for the languishing body, spirits constantly coming and going between the rock of exile and the far distant home. Sometimes the effort succeeds, as we have seen; and sometimes it fails; the spirit wastes itself in vain endeavor, passes away like the unnoticed melting of a cloud. To spirits thus aspiring, thus failing, life is indeed what old Desportes calls it, a bitter and thorny blossom, une fleur espineuse et poignante. For what is the loss of opportunity but the loss of the soul? and the conscious loss of opportunity may go on for a lifetime, a protracted martyrdom. Take the case of any intelligent exile, some wanderer in the Macerian desert, some refined person unluckily born in Patagonia, who rejects the Patagonian ideals, who no longer craves the most succulent of limpets gathered at the lowest tide: in our own comfort and satisfaction cannot we extend a little compassion to him? Not that I have the least prejudice against Patagonia; but we need some name for the better concentration of our sympathy. The intelligent but discontented Patagonian, then, who rejects the Patagonian ideals, whose thoughts are not the thoughts of Patagonia, whose ways are not Patagonian ways, he to whom even the most successful popular career in Patagonia would seem a humiliation, because it would associate him with the Patagonian character, and so compromise him before the extra-Patagonian world—his, I say, is not a happy case. His exile must end like other banishments for life—either in escape or in death. For while he lives he must do without spiritual light and heat, without the intellectual climate that he needs.

Do you call this a morbid state of mind in the Patagonian? Well, it may be that he should imitate the repose, the serenity of the limpet; it may be his duty to rest contented with the beach at low tide, with the estate to which he was born; and yet I say that his feeling is not devoid of a certain distinction; it may be, indeed, very blamable, but it is a feeling that is no trait of ignoble natures.

And there is, too, a sanative quality in that feeling. His critical attitude may help the exile to keep before him higher standards, whether in thought or in conduct, whether in his "Hellenizing" or his "Hebraizing" tendencies, as Mr. Arnold calls them, than he might entertain were he living comfortably at the very centre. His privations may thus be more effective than the maceration of the recluse in keeping him in sympathy with culture, with the best things of the mind; and surely that is some compensation for living in Patagonia! There is still another: there is a fortunate exemption for such exiles—fortunate we may safely call it, though it is but a negative beatitude—the exemption from envy. That is worth not a little. In Paris, in London, in Pekin, how many provocatives to envy beset even the philosopher! For in those cities he must see many undeniably superior persons about him—persons superior to himself not only in fortune, but in ability! There, in attainment of all sorts, he meets his rivals; and if he is a real philosopher, he will remember Creon's caution—"not to get the idea fixed in your head that what you say and nothing else is right."5 Still, philosopher or not, he will be likely to envy some of the desirable things that he sees; and the fault is perhaps excusable: at any rate an occasional touch of the claw, an effleurement now and then of the passion, need not surprise us, even when we do not excuse it, in London or Pekin. But in the Patagonian civilization, however important it may be to the progress of the world, what does such a man find to envy? Surely the higher provocatives to that weakness are not abundant. Hereditary wealth, ancient family dignities, culture, scholarship, imposing genius—these do not surround him, these do not confront him with his inferiority as they do, let us say, in this country. It is we, then, who are the unhappy ones in this respect; but we can understand, at least, the weakness of brethren who may be a little shaken by the contemplation of all the desirable things in which the richer civilizations abound.

Yes, the careers which we may observe from day to day may certainly prove stumbling blocks to some of us. The thriving politician or contractor, for instance, Dives in his barouche, the blooming members of literary cliques, the fashionable clergymen and poets, chorusing gently to feminine audiences, who listen intent, perhaps even "weeping in a rapturous sense of art," as Heine tells us the women of his day wept when they heard the sweet voices of the evirates singing of passion, of

Liebes fehnen,

Von Lieb' und Liebeserguss—

how admirable are all these characters! These, indeed, are careers to move any but the steadfast mind.

And yet, even in Philistia, it is not every one that will yearn after successes like these. In Philistia, far from the promised land, the exile may yet contemplate without desire all these desirable things, envying neither them nor their possessors. He may even indulge in a saving scorn of them, a scorn of the main achievements, the popular men of the Philistine community; bathing himself in irony as a tonic against the spiritual malaria. Such a man I once knew, a man of Askelon. He lived in that rich city as a recluse, and according to any standard recognized in Askelon, he was not rich. On this text he would sometimes quote delightful old Rutebeuf:

Je ne sai par ou je coumance,

Tant ai de matyère abondance

Por parleir de ma povretei.

Yet this man was not without his pleasures. One of them, I remember, came from his interest in the study of architecture. For Askelon was a finely built city; and he used to walk much in the streets of it, gazing upon the fronts of the costly houses, all patterned, as I understood, after the purest Greek orders. He used to walk around admiring, and making me admire. But this man had a wonderful eye, a visual gift which must have been, I think, much the same thing as the second sight or clairvoyance of which we read; for upon the fronts of these fine houses he saw more than what the delicate taste, the cunning hand of the builder had placed there. I have heard him say that he was "a Sunday's child," referring to some superstition not current in that community—and he certainly made out writing upon those walls and doors which I, for one, could never see, though I have no doubt that it was really there. But they were legends which would have startled the residents could they have been audibly published in the streets of Askelon. "What inscriptions upon these door plates!" he would sometimes remark, walking down the Pentodon, the most fashionable street in the place: "Let me read you a few that I discern in this neighborhood"; and as we passed slowly before the Greek houses he pronounced, one by one, these remarkable words, reading them off, as it seemed, from the lintels of the very finest edifices. I cannot give all of them, but these, if I remember, were some: Charlatan, Tartufe, Peculator, Sharper, Parthis mendacior; and when we came to one of the corner houses, or "palaces," as they called them in Askelon, he said: "One of our furtive men lives there—one of our men of three letters. We have as many of them here in Askelon as ever existed in Plautus's time, and they are quite as able now as they then were to live in fine houses to which they have not quite the most honest claim in the world." While he spoke the man of three letters came out and ran down the marble staircase, smiling, and offering, I thought, to salute my friend as he stepped into his chariot; but my friend, though he had clear sight for the palace, did not see the owner.

But you were surely too severe, poor friend of mine. There were just men even in Askelon—upright, religious, and intelligent, full of good works. What if this clever conveyancer had appropriated to himself enough to buy him a fine house? Was it not in the very air of Askelon that he should do such a thing—that he, like others, should at any rate establish himself comfortably? and will not some honester man than himself live after him in the fine house? Come now, confess, I used to say, that you yourself, in his place, might not have done much better: confess, at least, that when you were a boy you put your fingers into the sugar-bowl when you should have kept them out, when you well knew that you ought to keep them out! And then my friend would confess the pressure of the "environment," the power of the "Zeit-Geist," as we have learned to call it since then. Poor man! That was long ago; and things have changed greatly in Askelon of latter years. They tell me that everybody there has now grown honest, and that nobody goes around any more reading invisible writing on the houses. And all the fine buildings are still standing, it appears; though the journals of that city remark that some of the Grecian architecture has peeled off from the fronts of the houses in the Pentodon, having been insecurely fastened on, it seems, at first. And how my poor friend used to criticise those very palaces in his dry, technical way! One thing in particular that he said I remember by the antithesis, the turn of it; he used to say that the architects of Askelon were never certain whether to construct ornament or to ornament construction.

Well, he is gone now; he will never blame Askelon again, or run down Gath. He died in Philistia. Perhaps he served his purpose there, but I am sure he would have done more if he had been a little less Quixotic in his notions.

But let us not grow tristful again. How many a happy escape, as we said, has been made from Philistia; how many a clear spirit has made its way out of the darkness to a true honor. If many who have had the higher endowments have perished in the shadow, princes dying behind the iron mask, yet not all have failed; some have broken away to a career. Of two such in particular let us conclude by speaking—Winckelmann and Heine. Both were Prussians, and each one migrated from the north into a southern country, a fugitive from "the power of the night, the press of the storm." Each waited long before his opportunity came; each learned that the "tardiest of the immortals are the boon Hours." But each found his opportunity; and by what an instinctive escape! For Winckelmann it was his first journey out of Prussia, when, in 1755, he set his face toward Rome; still it was a homing flight like that of a carrier pigeon; for in Rome he found his appointed place, and there he spent in congenial work the remaining years of his life. Yet he could say, in the bitterness of his spirit, on reaching Rome, "I have come into the world and into Italy too late." Nor may we contradict that bitter cry, even in view of Winckelmann's great critical achievement; we have to ask, Might it not have been greater still, had he not been thus serus studiorum, as Horace phrases it—thus unluckily belated in his culture?

All the traits of these migrations of men of genius are interesting, and we may dwell for a moment, though at the risk of some digression, upon Winckelmann's disappointment on his arrival in the city of his desire. It was a pathetic disappointment, but one of a kind not infrequent with sensitive minds. Long detained by poverty in the north, it was not until the age of thirty-eight that he reached Italy; and when at last he arrived in Rome, the longed-for city wore a strange look for him—had an aspect for which he was not prepared. It was there that his emotion broke out as we have seen. We can understand his disappointment if we bear in mind the cruel treatment to which our fancies are commonly subjected at the hands of the fact. How swiftly, how silently, like the irrevocable sequence of images in a dissolving view, our premonitions vanish under the light of the reality! The actual Rome, the living man, the painting, the landscape which we travel far to see—these dispel at once the preconception; a glance, and the dream is gone, however long domesticated in the mind, however brightly glowing but now in the imagination. Fact is a careless bedfellow, and overlays the tender child Fancy; and even when nature contrives the change less rudely, we can hardly resign our poor, familiar fancies without regret. But sometimes, happily, we can do what Winckelmann did not do; we can retain the old fancies and compare them with the experience. Let me give a personal instance: I remember framing the distinctest image of the lakes of Killarney from my childhood readings in Peter Parley's veritable histories. There was the cool spring, shaded with bushes, and pouring out abundant waters; and there was the blessed Saint Patrick, standing by the rocky edge of the spring, clasping down the stout lid of an iron-bound chest upon the last of the unhappy serpents of Erin, and saying, "Be aisy, darlints!" just before casting the box into the depths of the lake. It was a pleasant scene, a clear imaginative microcosm; never was a distincter picture in my mind than that of this fancied Killarney. The real Killarney I saw many years after reading those histories of Peter Parley, yet that first vivid picture did not vanish at the sight; the fancied lake held its place against the reality; nay, even at this day, I can call up the two pictures at will, the imagined and the real, and compare the two—the scene of my early fancies with the humorous Celtic saint standing beside the spring and snapping down the lid of his box upon the tail of the last snake, on the one hand, and the broader landscape of reality, in which there were no saints, but many Patricks.

But Winckelmann, if he did not find the visionary Rome, soon became reconciled to the real one. The city put on the homelike look for him, and it was not long before it became profoundly endeared to him. It was with the authentic pang of homesickness that he left it, finally, to make that northward journey from which he was never to return.

How different was Heine's first experience of his newly-found home, Paris! For that other migrating spirit there was no such initiatory disappointment. For Heine his adopted city was from the first a spiritual home, a true city of refuge, an island of the blessed. For years, lingering in his cold city of the north, verdammtes Hamburg, as he called it, he had longed in vain to escape; and to what vivid expressions of his suffering he gives utterance! In one place he compares himself to the white swans at the public garden, whose wings were broken on the approach of winter that they should not fly away to the south:

"The waiter at the Pavilion declared that they were comfortable there, and that the cold was healthy for them. But that is not true. It is not good for one to be imprisoned hopelessly in a cold pool, and there to be frozen up; to have one's wings broken so that one can no longer fly forth to the fair South, where the beautiful flowers are, and the golden sunlight, and the blue mountain lakes. Alas! to me once was Fate not much kinder."

While still pent up in Hamburg he had written thus to a friend: "I am no German, as you well know.... There are but three civilized people—the French, the Chinese, and the Persian.... Ah, how I yearn for Ispahan! Alas! I, poor fellow, am far from its lovely minarets and odoriferous gardens! Ah, it is a terrible fate for a Persian poet that he must wear himself out in your base, rugged German tongue.... O Firdusi! O Ischami! O Saadi! how miserable is your brother!"

As Goethe is said to have thought of doing when he was in love with "Lili," Heine at this time thought of retiring to the United States, "a land which I loved before I knew it," as he wrote from Heligoland in 1830. How he knew it does not appear, but he decided against us; he calls this country a "frightful dungeon of freedom, where the invisible chains gall still more painfully than the visible ones at home, and where ... the mob exercises its coarse dominion!" Meanwhile, as he tells us somewhere, "In Hamburg it was my only consolation to think that I was better than other people."

Heine reached Paris in his thirty-first year; and never was the city better appreciated and enjoyed than by this young wanderer during the earlier time of his residence there. Everything in it pleased him: the intellectual life, the interest in ideas, not less than the gayety and charm. But he found much pleasure in the courtesy of Parisian manners. Parisian manners were then, as even now, distinguishable from Prussian by the careful observer. "Sweet pineapple odors of politeness!" he says, "how beneficially didst thou console my sick spirit, which had swallowed down in Germany so much tobacco vapor!... Like the melodies of Rossini did the pretty phrases of apology of a Frenchman sound in my ear, who had gently pushed me in the street on the day of my arrival. I was almost frightened at such sweet politeness—I who had been accustomed to boorish German knocks in the ribs without any apology at all." If any one jostled Heine roughly in the street, and made no apology, he would say, "I knew that that man was one of my countrymen."6

But Paris is somewhat more than a city of pleasure; it is a city of opportunity. To many Americans it is a stumbling-block, to many Englishmen foolishness; but Heine was one of the true children of Paris, though wandering at first far from the centre, and he found fitting work there. They were busy as well as joyous years, those that he first spent in that bright capital. O Paris, city of opportunity, how many other of thy children are still wandering far from the centre! Some of them live upon the sierras of Patagonia, some in the stonier streets of Askelon, some inhabit caves in the deserts of Maceria. Living an anchorite's life in German villages, in Pacific colonies, on Cape Cod or Kerguelen's Land, the delicate French spirit wastes itself away. And yet some of these exiles have found their way to that centre of blithe intellectual activity.

Heine was such a one; he spent in Paris the most productive and happy period of his life, the bright interval between his cloudy morning and the shadows that were to gather around him before their time; and how he glowed in the warmth and light of the capital! And while he carried his pleasures to excess, yet he did not go pleasuring like the vulgar. In a valid sense his very extravagances had an intelligible principle in them; one might say that he dissipated himself upon ethical grounds. Yet his were the reasons of a poetic, not of an analytic thinker. The popular religion, he said, has dishonored the flesh; let us restore it to honor. To restore joyousness to modern life, something of the antique innocence to pleasure, to make it reputable as well as delightful, to readjust the conscience of a community which looked upon pleasure as essentially wrong, and yet pursued it, so thinking, at the expense of its conscience, to relieve pleasure somewhat from the ban, to augment, in a word, the permitted happiness of life—that was Heine's aim; that was what he understood by his favorite doctrine of restoring the flesh to honor—la réhabilitation de la chair.

Do you call that an easy creed, a comfortable practice? I will not deny it, but do not let us lose the distinction, the trait by which Heine's doctrine was discriminated from that of some other easy-going apostles. Heine was intellectually sincere; he had a genuine purpose; he did not go to Paris, for instance, as some of our missionaries have gone of late years to Florence and Madrid, with commissions to labor among the "nominal Christians," as they call the Catholic residents of those comfortable capitals, to convert them to the true Christianity of American Protestantism. No; Heine had too much directness, too much intellectual verity for a situation of that sort: his mistakes were honest mistakes, and he paid an honest penalty for them.

And surely the reinstatement of the flesh, the restoration of the body to honor and to perfection, is, as I have said elsewhere, an admirable purpose. It is only through the wise reinstatement of the flesh, if I am not mistaken, that the condition of men is likely to be much bettered; for it grows clearer every year that educating will not accomplish this, or medicine, or penalties, or perhaps even preaching. But Heine was no theorist in these matters: he was poet before all, and he was too absolutely, too completely a poet for the justest thought, or for his own good. Heine's nature lacked that tonic bent toward accurate knowledge, toward dispassionate observation and thought, which was the salvation, for instance, of Goethe, and which has been the salvation of all great natures who have sought to excel in character as well as in art. The spring of clear, untroubled intelligence did not flow for Heine, the stream which should flow upon the homestead of every poet, the fons Baudusiæ splendidior vitro. In those invigorating waters he seldom refreshed his spirit as the greatest poets have done—in meditation, in discipline, in dispassionate inquiry. These are the spiritual antiseptics that are needful at least for the more carnal poetic temperaments. Am I using fanciful metaphors? I mean that the poet who may undertake to put forth a new gospel of conduct, must first think long and strictly. But Heine did not think strictly, and his critical theory of life need not detain us. Heine thought of pleasure, for instance, as Mr. Ruskin thinks of work, that it is a thing to be had for the asking; the fact being in any state of society yet established inexorably the reverse—namely, that neither work nor pleasure is commonly to be had on demand.

But it was a part of the new creed that enjoyment was to be had for the asking, and the propaganda already existed. "There was a little society of devotees, if I may call them so—Michel Chevalier, Olinde, Enfantin, and others—who were zealously preaching the rehabilitation of the flesh"; and Heine devoted himself with assiduity to the pleasing cultus—with all the more assiduity, we may fairly suppose, as being a stranger in Paris. I fear that his labors were in the main of a carnal and unscientific sort; certainly they never won him any reputation for religious zeal. Nor was Paris the field before all others where laborers of this sort were needed. In Paris, indeed, the doctrine and practice of pleasure had been attended to, with no lack of zeal, for at least three centuries before the time of Heine's arrival there. Would that Heine had taken up his creed with somewhat more of reserve; that he had been content with a less many-sided experience of pleasure! For he surfeited himself somewhat with this experience; he knew its dangers perfectly well, but what ardent young man is deterred by knowing the danger? We bite at the hook just the same, as M. Renan says: L'hameçon est évident, et néanmoins on y a mordu, on y mordra toujours. And with all his love of delicacy, with all his distinction of spirit, he also relished harsh things. Sharp aliments, rank flavors, draining ecstasies that mingle the last drop of pleasure with pain and faintness, seemed necessary to complete the round of this man's life—of Heine the singer, Heine the man of all his time in whom the delicate blossoms of poetry were most fragrant. No poet could better deal than he with the exquisite joyances of the heart and soul; and he well knew that this bloom does not gather upon the fruit of coarse experience. He knew that the most delicate vintage is yielded to the gentle pressure. But with this he was not content. He crushed the grape harshly; he made it yield up its harsher juices; the flavors of rind and seed are expressed in the wine of his life, and mingle with the cup that he pours out.

And his life was spent as wine is poured upon the ground. Heine ended where the ascetics began, in pain, privation, mortification of the flesh; and it was a mortification that had not even the consolation of being the sufferer's own choice, for it was involuntary. Better for him would it have been had he gone out to dwell in the wilderness, as St. Jerome left the Paris of his day, and retired into the desert of Chalcis. For a strange penalty was to be his—one of which the joyous apostle of pleasure could hardly have dreamed before the blow fell. A paralytic touch converted the man of pleasure into a man of pain, his bed a living tomb. No more for ever, for Heine, was there to be any reinstatement of the flesh.

This dark closing period of Heine's life has a fascination about it; it holds the attention like the background of a Rembrandt etching, with its dimly-seen forms that appear to stir in the gloom, ghostly, half-alive; such a contrast there is between his gloomy close and the bright projection of his earlier career. Shall we call his life a failure as regards himself, his personal success and happiness? Upon that point we may not pronounce too confidently. He would have chosen it had the choice been offered him with full knowledge of the alternatives; he would have preferred it to any commonplace existence. There will always be those who hold that such careers as Byron's or Heine's, such fitful careers, with their fierce tempests, their ecstatic sunshine, their "awful brevity," are preferable to any serener life, however long; and least of all may we pity Heine. With what scorn would he look down upon our pity!

Heine's life has a peculiar value for the student of modern life, in that it has what we may call an exemplary interest. For Heine made that costly sacrificial experiment of which the old examples never suffice us; the experiment which each new generation requires anew, in which nature in her wasteful way insists on consuming the finest geniuses. As Byron had attempted just before him, so Heine attempted to think and to live without reserves, to compass the round of sentiment and sensation, to touch the entire range of experience. Like Byron, he could not pass through the fire; he fell, the flame licked him up. And yet, far more truly than many a martyr, Byron and Heine gave their lives for us. Not, indeed, in the professed spirit of the martyr, not purposing the sacrifice, but for that very reason making it the more significant. They experimented lavishly, daringly with life, and in their poems they give us real life as no other poets since have done. They are real passion, real thought, the ruddy drops of the sad heart. Heine's "Book of Songs" is his own body and blood. One feels of it what Whitman says of his "Leaves of Grass": "This is no book; who touches this touches a man."

And Heine and Byron, in giving their lives for us, did what the greatest poets and the strongest men have seldom done. Though they have always suffered, yet for us these have rather toiled than suffered. Dante, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, Goethe—what exalted, what demiurgic creations have they bequeathed to us, what power to move, what beauty to ponder with unapproachable longing! But these creations have an awing beauty; they keep an unattainable distance and height. When we consider the lives of these greatest spirits, we find them walking apart in the fastnesses of the hills, pursuing arduous ways where few or none may bear them company. Their paths gain upward upon the heights; they gain so far and high that the tinge of that mountain remoteness falls upon them—an airy distance, a deterring shadow; and if ever their voices seem to say, "Follow us," they have not pointed out the way.

But though Byron and Heine were thus rapt up into the mountain in visions, their daily walk and life were in the world; its dust and soilure cling to them, we see them wavering and going astray. Their very wanderings bring them nearer to us, who sojourn; their desire, their aspiration, their failures make the wiser use of opportunity possible to any of us who may have been born away from home.

Not here in the populous town,

In the playhouse or mart,

Not here in the ways gray and brown,

But afar on the green-swelling down,

Is the home of my heart.

There the hillside slopes down to a dell

Whence a streamlet has start;

There are woods and sweet grass on the swell,

And the south winds and west know it well:

'Tis the home of my heart.

There's a cottage o'ershadowed by leaves

Growing fairer than art,

Where under the low sloping eaves

No false hand the swallow bereaves:

'Tis the home of my heart.

And there as you gaze down the lea,

Where the trees stand apart,

Over grassland and woodland may be

You will catch the faint gleam of the sea

From the home of my heart.

And there in the rapturous spring,

When the morning rays dart

O'er the plain, and the morning birds sing,

You may see the most beautiful thing

In the home of my heart;

For there at the casement above,

Where the rosebushes part,

Will blush the fair face of my love:

Ah, yes! it is this that will prove

'Tis the home of my heart.

Sir Robert Peel, shortly before his death, said that what he had seen and heard in public life had left upon his mind a prevailing impression of gloom and grief. What impressed the mind of the English statesman so painfully in reference to his own country must be felt correspondingly by Americans who contemplate the South; for its present condition awakens the anxious solicitude of every thoughtful patriot. A brief mention of some of the evils that afflict her may help toward the ascertainment and application of adequate remedies. Let it be premised that this discussion proceeds in no degree from disloyalty to the Government, nor from unwillingness to accept the legitimate consequences of the war.

Betwixt the North and the South there lingers much estrangement. One serious cause of irritation at the South, which seems irremediable, is the distrust with which those who sustained the Confederate States are regarded by a large number of Northern people. Our motives are habitually misrepresented, our purposes misunderstood, our actions perverted, our character maligned. On our conduct have been placed constructions which seem to spring from direst hate or malice. By representative men Southern States are spoken of as outside the Union; and "a solid South" has been the party appeal most efficacious for arousing sectional and vindictive passion. Every Southern citizen who followed his convictions, and affiliated with the 1,640,000 Democrats of the North, is suspected of disloyalty or treason. No protestations of men or parties, no avowals of governors or legislatures, are accepted as sincere unless accompanied by a support of the Republican party. Party platforms, the support of an Abolitionist like Mr. Greeley, organic laws, are regarded as deceptive because the shibboleth of disloyalty and patriotism is "Republicanism." These persistent efforts to brand us as inferiors, to make us unequals as citizens, to coerce the support of an administration and a party, are based upon our unfitness, morally or intellectually, to decide for ourselves what is best for the country's welfare and perpetuity. We are loyal, and patriotic, and honest only when we sing pæans to the Administration and its favorites. Practically the war has been prolonged, and this policy of disunion alienates, embitters, and prohibits the growth of fraternal sentiments. To prevent a complete and durable reconciliation seems the settled policy of a large party. This proscription and ostracism have helped to create a hopelessness as to the future. A nightmare paralyzes our energies.

The South, if conquered, and honestly accepting the results of the war, needed encouragement and material help instead of discriminating injuries. Her condition was deplorable. All wars are destructive of property and production. To the South the war between the States was exhausting to the utmost degree. Its destructiveness is not computable by figures. The numerical inferiority of the army made it necessary to put into the effective military force every available boy and man; and these were thus withdrawn from productive labor. Much of the labor that remained was applied, not to the production of wealth, but to such manufactures as were needful only in war. For four dreadful years, like the triste noche described by Prescott, with ports closed, and under the imperious necessity of evoking and utilizing every possible warlike agency, this cessation of wealth-producing industry, this drain upon material resources, this decimation of our best men, this waste of capital and exhaustion of the country from the Rio Grande to the Chesapeake bay, continued remorselessly. Superadd the emancipation of 4,000,000 slaves, the sudden extinction of $1,600,000,000 of property, the disorganization of the labor system, the upheaval of society, the "stupendous innovation" upon habits, modes of thought, allegiance, amounting almost to a change of civilization, and it will be easy to see that the South started upon her new career with nothing but genial climate, fertile soil, and brave hearts. Absence of capital, of concentrated wealth, made it necessary to begin de novo. Slavery and profitableness of crops had prevented diversity of pursuits. Agriculture, applied to a few products, was almost our sole occupation. Former habits had disinclined to mechanical pursuits or manual labor, and our towns, since 1865, have been crowded with young men, who have sought in clerkships, agencies, and professions the means of support. These employments, if furnishing remunerative wages, are not wealth-producing, add nothing to capital, and have aggravated the general impoverishment.

These evils have been intensified by vicious legislation and bad government. Federal legislation has been much in the interest of stock-jobbers, speculators, monopolists, so that "corners" have been fostered, and labor has paid heavy and depressing tribute to fatten greedy cormorants. The present system of banking violates the established principles of currency, and is in utter contradiction to what, for a decade, by consent of all parties and financiers, was the policy of the Government. Bad as the system is inherently by injurious legislation, its benefits are secured to a favored class, and by combination with other corporations, notably railroad companies, the business of the country is largely in the control of a few monopolists, who rule and grow rich in spite of the laws of political economy. Promissory notes, printed with pictures on fine paper, have been substituted for the money of the Constitution, and our young people are growing up with the notion that this rag currency is a legitimate measure of value and a legal solvent of debts.

So marked has been this class legislation in the interest of capital, that a Senator of the United States, Mr. Wallace of Pennsylvania, says, "From the beginning of the present Administration down to the adjournment of Congress in August, 1876, every financial statute has had but one purpose, and that purpose to increase the value of the bonded indebtedness of the Government." Statistics show how insecure is business, on what vicious principles it is transacted, and how rapidly property is concentrating in the hands of a few. In 1874 there were 5,830 failures for a total of $155,000,000, and in 1875 the failures increased to 7,740, aggregating a loss of $201,000,000. In both North and South there has been a frightful increase of indebtedness by towns and cities, counties and States—thirty-eight States owe an aggregate of $382,000,000—so that taxpayers groan in purse and spirit, and are deeply concerned to find a way of honest payment.

Taxation has been and is a potent instrument of wrong and corruption. To pay the national debt increased taxation was, of course, necessary and proper, but taxation should have been adjusted to the rights of honest creditors and the lessened pecuniary ability of taxpayers. The Federal and local taxes of the last eleven years, according to high authority, amount to not less than $7,500,000,000. Never in modern times was revenue collected in such a complicated and ruinous manner. Mr. Curtis tells us one-fourth of the revenue is lost in the collection. If the collection and expenditure of revenue be the tests for determining the wisdom of a government, then ours is not "the best the world ever saw."

Extravagant expenditure is closely connected with enormous revenues. Economy of administration is a lost art. Federal expenditure in 1860, exclusive of payment of public debt, was $1.94 per head. In 1870 it was $3.52 per head, and in 1875 $3.38. The $4,500,000,000 of Federal taxes7 of the last eleven years have not been exclusively appropriated to reduction of debt and defraying necessary expenditures. Officials have been needlessly multiplied, jobs have been created, peculation is common, and millions have been squandered on contracts made with hungry partisans. Such an exhaustion of national resources is governmental robbery. In the purer days it was a political maxim that no more money was to be taken from the people than was necessary for the constitutional and economical wants of the Government. Large revenues and large expenditures are mutually recreative. Mr. Calhoun, the most sagacious and philosophical statesman of this century, said, in 1839, "I am disposed to regard it as a political maxim in free States, that an impoverished treasury, once in a generation at least, is almost indispensable to the preservation of their institutions and liberty." All experience shows that excessive revenue and large expenditures increase the patronage of the government and corrupt public and private morals. Some palliation may be found in the fact that wars are demoralizing, necessitate much assumption of power, and that our conflict was gigantic; but after all due allowances the corruptions in America must find a parallel in that period of English history when the sovereign was the pensioner of a foreign potentate. The centennial anniversary of our republic finds a record so scandalous that all honest men blush, and the Fourth of July eulogists have to make the humiliating confession of much of vice and shame in our national life, of a decline from the former high standard of political and moral purity, and of the blister of corruption in high places, upon Executive and judiciary, upon laws, and on the acts of prominent officials. (See speeches of Dr. Storrs and Hon. C. F. Adams.)

As cause and consequence of oppressive taxes, and wasteful and corrupt extravagance, I may instance the centripetal tendencies of the Federal Government. The patriot must deprecate the rapid strides toward consolidation. Our government was designed as a government of clearly-defined limitations upon power. It is now practically absolute. In its complex character, a division of powers mutually exclusive betwixt Federal and State governments, "divisibility of sovereignty," as some phrase it, was contemplated. Now the States are provinces dependent on, submissive to, the central head, just as the Colonies were looked upon, prior to our independence, as a species of feudatories for the benefit of the mother country. By popular vote, by elastic constructions or palpable violations of the Constitution, by unprecedented assumptions, our Federal system has been revolutionized. It is the height of absurdity to talk of the restrictions of a written Constitution, when a dominant majority interprets finally that instrument, and there are no remedies to protect against invasion or encroachment.8 It is a mere glittering generality to boast of a constitutional republic, if a President can violate the organic law with impunity, or if Congress is restrained in its assumptions only by its own sense of justice. Much recent executive, legislative, and judicial action has tended to absorb State rights and prerogatives. Mr. Boutwell's proposition to remand a State to territorial pupilage would be but the legal enactment and the logical sequence of what has had the enthusiastic approval of a large number of citizens. Encroachments have been so numerous and violent, submission has been so tame, that governors are coolly set aside on the demand of a petty marshal, and legislatures on the bidding of Mr. Jones. Once States were supposed to have the right of eminent domain; to have exclusive control of education, of litigation among its own citizens; to determine the elective franchise; to regulate the relations of parent and child, husband and wife, guardian and ward; but that was in the purer days of the republic, when States were not mere counties, but political communities, with, a large residuum of undelegated powers. The earlier amendments to the Constitution imposed checks and limitations upon the general Government, because of the watchful jealousy on the part of the States of their sovereignty and independence. Following the tendency to centralize, to despotize, the late amendments are in the direction of consolidation, and take away from the States what was once universally regarded as their exclusive prerogative in reference to the elective franchise. Now, under amendments and "appropriate legislation for carrying them into effect," the national Government can control voting, make a registration of voters, and very soon, if there be no arrest of tyranny, the ballot box will be under the guardianship of Presidential appointees. Federal election laws thus degrade States into petty municipalities and subvert liberty.

Passing from these grievances, applicable to the whole Union, I approach what is to my apprehension the most unmatchable outrage ever inflicted by a civilized people. Some acts, like the partition of Poland, stand out on the pages of history as disgraceful national crimes; but most of them shade into minor offences compared with the crime-breeding, race-endangering, liberty-imperiling savagery of conferring the right of suffrage upon the negroes en masse. In other countries liberty has been not so much a creation as a growth. In conservative England, suffrage has been slowly, temperately enlarged, always preserving restrictions so as not to commit the destinies of the kingdom to an ignorant mob. Giving the elective franchise to the suddenly emancipated negroes, placing the government of States in the hands of such a class, wholly unprepared by education or experience, if not such a repeating crime, would be a farce for the ages. Every person of the least intelligence knows that generally the voting of the negroes is a mere sham. He votes as a machine. He is the tool of the demagogue, the pawn of a political party. That men with no intelligent understanding of rights and duties, unable to read, untrained in political affairs, wholly ignorant of the commonest matters pertaining to government, superstitious, credulous, victims of impostors, paying no capitation tax, should decide upon grave questions of organic or statute law, upon the financial or foreign policy of the country, should control counties, cities, States, is an offence that will stink in the nostrils of coming centuries. What has occurred since the Presidential election is demonstration that both parties at the North regard unlimited negro suffrage as subversive of the principle of reliance upon moral worth and clear intelligence. The presence of the military in South Carolina, Florida, and Louisiana, the hurrying to and fro of partisans, the secret conclaves and cabalistic telegrams, the jealous superintendence of the counting of votes, the criminations and recriminations in reference to fraud and intimidation, are the legitimate results of the attempt to sustain a party by such extreme medicine. Our novel experiment of free government cannot endure many more such tests. Prof. Huxley, speaking to Americans during his late visit, said: "You and your descendants have to ascertain whether the great mass of people will hold together under the forms of a republic and the despotic reality of universal suffrage; whether centralization will get the better without the actual or disguised monarchy; whether shifting corruption is better than a permanent bureaucracy." It need not take long to work out the problem if the ballot box is to be controlled by ignorance. Sometimes we are lectured to be grateful to the North for its magnanimity toward the South. Legislation does not sustain the self-eulogy. It is alleged that mercy was shown to "rebels and traitors." Passing over the petitio principii in the phraseology, a thousand times better it would have been to have hung President, and Cabinet, and every Congressman, and every general, than to have fastened upon us this incurable cancer, eating up the life-blood of the Union.

In the South, the administration of government in some instances has been marked by oppressive tyranny and open corruption. Incompetent and dishonest men have been appointed to positions, and with full knowledge of their wrong doings have been retained to accomplish party ends. This injustice and tyranny have demoralized somewhat our own people. Tyranny always corrupts. A lower standard of morality is first tolerated, and then becomes popular. Lax motives of honor are taking the place of chivalrous integrity. Payment of honest debts is evaded. Grinding poverty has made some unduly covetous of riches. Enormous taxation, selfish and immoral legislation, have partially undermined the foundations of private virtue. The ease and frequency with which the rewards of honest toil are filched away give insecurity to property and take away much of the stimulus to diligent toil. Some have sunk into despair, while others, with more of unsubdued energy, are willing for almost anything to turn up which gives promise or possibility of change.

The South in seeking relief need not delude herself by reliance upon any party to reform evils and restore prosperity. Some difficulties are independent of party action, or even political policy, and have their origin in more general causes. A portion of the commercial and financial troubles is probably due to some "wider misadjustment of labor and capital" than can be rectified by one country, and requires broad and sound statesmanship. The Republican party is held together, in part, by the "cohesive power of public plunder," or compacted into unity by distrust or hatred of the South. The Democratic party, as unsound as its antagonist on the vital questions of tariff, currency, finances, and the character of the General Government, has practised the fatal maxim that "to the victors belong the spoils," and, in special localities, has been implicated in corruption. The history of parties in England and the United States shows that any party long in power will become corrupt. To rely upon any party, or the wisdom or sense of justice of any government, for protection of property or guaranty of civil or religious liberty, is to lean upon a broken reed; for rights never enforce themselves, and are soon gone unless sustained by more potent means than the justice or honor of those in power. A President is impotent of himself, soon passes into private life, and is at best but a man.

Alike futile is the notion, sometimes finding audible expression, that an arbitrary government or a monarchy would bring relief. Our fathers, in throwing off a kingly government and setting up a constitutional republic, acted in the full light thrown on popular rights by all preceding history. They did not live in prehistoric or barbaric times, but acted with rare wisdom and patriotism. More sagacious men never planned a government, and blindly and suicidally would we act to prefer or accept a monarchy. The centuries of the past are eloquent with wisdom and plethoric with instructive examples on this subject. God has never given any exclusive rights to special families, and all historical records confirm, with the Scriptures, the folly of choosing a king. How often in such governments is public policy dependent on royal whims, on palace intrigues, on the taste or caprice of the boudoir! Monarchy has been the rule of violence; inequality and centralization are of its essence. The rebellion in England and the French revolution were the long-delayed protests of outraged peoples against ruinous taxation and hurtful tyranny and cankerous corruption. When the disgraceful crimes by men in high places were exposed last year European journals made themselves merry over the corruptions which they alleged were the legitimate outgrowths of democratic institutions. In the first place, our Government is not a democracy, and never was intended to be. Secondly, monarchies are not in a condition to cast the first stone. Italy, Spain, Austria, Russia, and France have had corruption enough to make them blush. As England is held up for our copying, and is less censurable than the others, I cite a few instances from her history. May, in "Constitutional History of England," Vol. I., p. 299 says: "Our Parliamentary history has been tainted with this disgrace of vulgar bribes for political support from the reign of Charles II. far into that of George III." For shamefulness of public life Charles II. stands without a rival. He was a pensioner of the King of France, and applied to his own privy purse large sums of money which had been appropriated by Parliament for carrying on the war. The equipoise designed to be secured in the National Legislature by the House of Commons was defeated because the House was at once dependent and corrupt. Borough nominations, places, pensions, contracts, shares in loans and lotteries, and even pecuniary bribes, secured the ascendency of Crown and Lords in the councils and government of the State. Sunderland, Secretary of State under James II., stipulated to receive 25,000 crowns from the King of France for services to be rendered. Walpole's and Pelham's administrations were notorious for the very audacity of their corruptions. In the reign of Anne Parliamentary corruption was extensive and unblushing. Sir John Trevor, the Speaker, accepted a bribe and did the dirty work of bribing other members. In the reign of George I., during his first Parliament, 271 members held offices, pensions, and sinecures; in the first of George II., 257. In 1776 Lord Chatham accused the ministers of "servility, incapacity, corruption." Macaulay says Lord North's administration was supported by vile and corrupt means, and the King, George III., was not only cognizant of Parliamentary bribery, but advised it and contributed money to it. Although there has been much improvement in the character and purity of the public men, yet as late as 1829 the pension list was above £750,000.

The principle of a representative constitutional republic is right. Much of the evil which afflicts us is the result of a departure from our original system; is an accident rather than essential, and is certainly not to be cured by a monarchical government.

In suggesting some remedies or palliatives for present ills it is not needful to startle by novelties. Truth is generally commonplace, honesty always. A return to justice and right, frugality and economy, as applicable to the body politic and to individual life, a recurrence to fundamental principles, are of prime importance.

As a people we must, if possible, preserve what remains of the Constitution and of the federative system. Sober, honest purpose can reform some abuses. Imperious necessity will compel the North to take effective steps for restoring the violated purity of the Government. If present tendencies are not arrested, liberty will be sacrificed. As the tendency of every government is to excess, a constitution is more or less perfect according as it is full of limitations of authority. The grant and the distribution of public functions should be accompanied with safeguards. Our Federal Constitution cautiously delegates to various public functionaries certain powers of government, defines and limits the powers thus delegated, and reserves to the people of the States their sovereignty over all things not delegated. Our organic law thus seeks to restrain the Government within narrow and prescribed limits, to guard weaker and dissimilar interests against inequality, to interpose efficient checks, to prevent the stronger from oppressing the weaker. Ours is a government under a written compact, and in its purity the best ever devised. The war between the States is much misunderstood. It was a gigantic conflict of political ideas, a controversy, not for or between dynasties, but on the nature and character and power of the Federal Government. Three things were settled by the war:

2. The surrender of any claim of resort to secession in case of dispute as to powers of the Government, or as a remedy for violated compact.

3. The recognition of such a person as a citizen of the United States, independent of citizenship in a State.

Besides these, nothing else of a political character was settled, and the second was determined only by the stern arbitrament of war. The right of search was, however, similarly adjusted, and the treaty of peace effected at Ghent, on December 24, 1814, contains no allusion to the casus belli. There are few, if any, who do not rejoice at the accomplishment of the first. The mode of emancipation was not such as we would have chosen; but as the problem baffled the wisdom of all the statesmen of the past, we may as well be grateful that African slavery no longer exists to perplex and confound patriots and Christians. The opinions of the framers of the Constitution were reversed on these three subjects by the war. All else remains intact, or can be put in statu quo ante bellum. The Constitution was not abolished. No vital principle of the Federal system, State interposition excepted, was destroyed. "The invasions of the Constitution have resulted from administrative abuses," says Governor Jenkins, "and not from structural changes in the government. This distinction should be kept constantly in view. In a complex government like our own let it never be conceded that a power once usurped is thenceforth a power transferred, nor that a right once suppressed is for that cause a right extinguished, nor that a Constitution a thousand times violated becomes a Constitution abolished." The war did not decide that the powers of the Federal Government were indefinite and unlimited. That is subsequent usurpation. The war did not decide that State lines were to be obliterated, State flags torn down, State governments reduced to municipalities, and the elements of civil authority fused into one conglomerate and centralized mass. Whatever may be the fate or the construction of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments, they cannot mean the concentration of all power at Washington and the complete control of the States by the general Government. Our Constitution-makers could not have contemplated political irresponsibility; that the minority should be at the mercy of the majority; and that the residuary mass of undelegated powers was to be swallowed up by the delegated. The fathers felt that no body of men could be safely entrusted with unrestrained authority, and they knew that "all restrictions on authority unsustained by an equal antagonist power must for ever prove wholly inefficient in practice." That a mere party majority can rule as they please, is hateful despotism. A majority, unhindered by any rule but their discretion, is anything but free government; for human nature cannot endure unlimited power, and bodies of men are not more discreet in their tyranny than individual tyrants. The distinction between the granting and the executing, the Constitution-making and the law-making power, is to be reaffirmed. The general Government and the States have separate and distinct objects and peculiar interests—"the States, acting separately, representing and protecting the local and peculiar interests, and acting jointly, through one general government, representing and protecting the interests of the whole; and thus perfecting, by an admirable but simple arrangement, the great principle of representation and responsibility, without which no government can be free or just."—VI. Calhoun, 66.

We need civil service reform in the United States, States, and cities, reducing the number, increasing the competency and responsibility of office-holders, and abolishing the pestiferous maxim that to the victors in a party contest belong of right the offices of the country. We need rigid economy, public and private, civic purity, honest administration. To take a citizen's money, except for the just and economical administration of affairs, is governmental robbery. Economy is not possible in Federal, or State, or municipal governments, with high taxes. Men will steal. The Bible says that the love of money is the root of all evil. Handling large sums of the people's money is a temptation before which many have yielded. "Economy and accountability are virtues without which free and popular governments cannot long endure."

Closely allied is the good old homely virtue of honesty. Under the temptation of loss of property, men have sought to accumulate by any methods and get back to ante-secession pecuniary condition. Public corruption has been contagious. Men contract debts loosely and improvidently, and wipe out easily by bankrupt laws. Tweedism has fastened itself upon elections. False registration, ballot-box stuffing, the machinery and appliances for fraud, are not the exclusive practice of one section or party. "Cheating never thrives." It is as true in politics as in religion that there is no good in sin. It is essentially and always evil. Party is a great tyrant at best, and the caucus system enslaves men, and few have the courage to disobey its edicts and encounter its vengeance; but when party to the terrible enginery of a caucus, controlled by the vulgar and the vicious, adds fraud and bribery, woe be to our republic and to our civilization!

An indispensable factor to the product of the South's upbuilding is the introduction of a more healthful public opinion as a positive element in politics. It ought to be an ever-present and a permanent force in elections and the choice of candidates. Any thing like union of church and State, or the prescribing of a Christian profession as a test for office, is not to be thought of, except to resist the first hint at such a possibility; but such opposition should not prevent moral and Christian men from demanding honesty in officials, fairness and openness in party machinery, and common decency and morality in candidates. In cities, political preferment and success in nominating caucuses are largely the result of party machinery by "pot-house politicians," by grog shops and gambling saloons, and by men not conspicuous for virtue or intelligence. So foul is the atmosphere of party politics, to such dishonoring and degrading practices are applicants for office often reduced, so necessary is it to spend money corruptly and to pension the claqueurs and intriguers and wire-pullers, that the virtuous and patriotic are often disgusted, and many Christians are unwilling to peril spiritual health and life by contact with such impurities. The complications and "trimming" expediences often deter the pure and refined from political associations, and those who control American politics are quite content to dispense with the presence, except at the ballot-box, of those who ought to give tone and direction to public opinion. Moral character, sobriety, decency, chastity, are not the elements of availability in the selection of candidates. Drunkards, profligates, connivers at fraud, plotters, are apparently as acceptable for nomination and election as those whose intelligence and virtues should commend them to public approval. Macaulay has a sentiment which ought to be printed on satin and hung up in every house to be memorized by every voter: "The practice of begging for votes is absurd, pernicious, and altogether at variance with the true principles of representative government. The suffrage of an elector ought not to be asked, or to be given, as a personal favor. It is as much for the interests of constituents to choose well as it can be for the interest of a candidate to be chosen.... A man who surrenders his vote to caresses and supplications forgets his duty as much as if he sold it for a bank-note. I hope to see the day when an Englishman (an American) will think it as great an affront to be courted and fawned upon in his capacity of elector as in his capacity of juryman."

Not lightly fall

Beyond recall

The written scrolls a breath can float:

The crowning fact,

The kingliest act

Of freedom is the freeman's vote.

The too common practice in all portions of the Union honors vice and gives scant encouragement to noblest qualities. If a community bestow its rewards and honors on inferior or vicious men, higher qualities will decay and perish or seek other fields. If honors and rewards be allotted to the noble and the good, the demand will develop intelligence and nobility. In America there is lamentably a plentiful lack of great men. Whatever may be the demand, the supply is inadequate. Woe to the country, said Metternich, whose condition and institutions no longer produce great men to manage its affairs. The country needs men of earnest convictions and noble aims, "to whom power is not a possession to be grasped, but a trust to be fulfilled." A nation can have no purer wealth than the stainless honor of its public men. The philosophic Macintosh enunciated almost a maxim when he said, "There can be no scheme or measure as beneficial to the State as the mere existence of men who would not do a base act for any public advantage." By some, politics seems to be regarded as a game in which the sharpest are to win. Federal, State, or municipal government can never be safely committed to any party or men as the result of fraud or connivance at fraud.

Since the Federal Government dispensed with a period of probation as preparatory to suffrage, and refused to leave the whole question of suffrage to the States where it properly belongs, the presence of the negroes becomes to the South fearfully ominous of peril. Giving the right to vote to the ignorant and incapable is only a part of the evils associated with the inhabitancy of such a multitude of citizens of a different and inferior race. Such is the climate of the South, the fertility of soil, the ease of bare subsistence, that little labor and but scant clothing and shelter are needed by the negroes, with their thriftlessness, and without taste or desire for any large measure of artificial comforts, and with few incentives to patient industry. Their presence will prevent any early or large immigration of Europeans. The removal of the negroes is an obvious suggestion, but the policy pursued toward the Indians, undesirable, as coinhabitants, but as capable as negroes of free government, seems impracticable from want of territory for colonization and because of the large number of the negroes. This displacement at present may be impossible, and would certainly be tedious and expensive. Close contact of the two races becomes a necessity of this coöccupancy of territory. The Southern white people should cultivate kindliest feelings and make wise and strenuous efforts for the improvement of their former slaves. Already the whites bear the expense of educating the blacks. In the last six years the expenditure in Virginia for "colored schools" has amounted to near $1,668,000, and it would be safe to say that one and a half millions of this sum were paid by white citizens. So also we take care of their blind, and deaf, and dumb, and idiotic, pay for the trial and safe-keeping of their criminals, and bear the burdens of government. Impartial justice should be administered without reference to race, color, or previous condition; freedom and the right to hold and inherit property should be guaranteed; protection against all violence or wrong should be afforded; but there should be formed no party nor other affiliations which may tend to efface the line of social separation, or ignore the predestined distinction of color. The attempt in Africa to Europeanize the negro and ignore his idiosyncrasies as a race has utterly failed. The races here should be kept from abnormal admixture. Rigid laws, springing from and enforced by an inflexible public opinion, should prevent intermarriage. Miscegenation will degrade the Caucasian. Red and white deteriorate, a fortiori, white and black. The fusion would lower the white race in the scale of civilization, of moral and mental power, and would reproduce the ignorance, superstition, priestcraft, and chronic revolutions of Mexico with her mongrel population.

A felt want of the South is the restoration of old-fashioned love of country. A sore need is to feel in our souls, as a passion, that this is our country; that we have part and lot in it; and to be deeply interested in its welfare and perpetuity. To keep alive animosities is unchristian. Brooke found it impossible to frame an indictment against a whole people. It ought to be equally hard to involve a whole party, or geographical section, in sweeping accusations of injustice, and tyranny, and fraud. Strong as is the provocation at times to bitterness and hatred, the South should not cherish resentment, but rather seek that which makes for peace and reconciliation. It is better, as far as possible, to obliterate unpleasant memories, to practise toleration and forgiveness, to cultivate a genuine patriotism, ardent love for this ancient birth land of the free. It is easy by cheap rhetoric to open wounds afresh and inflame hostility; but every true son and daughter of the South should strive not to transmit a legacy of hate, nor make our land a Poland or an Ireland. The noble ambition ought rather to be to lift up the South and the United States to the level of its privileges, and in the future to harmonize the ideal and the actual. The South needs the development of her material resources, the diversification of industry, the construction of permanent highways, the power of machinery in its manifold applications, sounder notions of labor, rigid economy and responsibility in all offices. The whole country should encourage universal education in universities, colleges, academies, and public schools; elevate the tone of a free press; preserve an able and independent judiciary; insist upon juster and more enlarged ideas of official duty; maintain the principles of constitutional liberty and absolute freedom of religion, and above all, a spirit of subordination to the divine law, and a reverent acknowledgment of Him in whose hands are the destinies of nations.

If the St. Louis preacher who lately tilted against novels chose judiciously his points of attack, he presumably won a victory. His own Sunday-school library is very likely filled with wishy-washy fiction for bright young minds that might be harvesting works worth remembering, whether of romance or history. The prudent Quakers of Germantown rejoice in a free library without a novel, and a librarian who never read one. Indiscriminate novel reading is as sorry a tipple as addiction to newspapers, which also, in fact, are largely works of the imagination. Besides, the moral of even a goody-good story may be ingeniously twisted by perverse readers. The other day a lad was indicted in England for breaking into the Rev. Mr. Sherratt's schoolroom, where he stole some books and cake, trudging off with them in a wheelbarrow at midnight. He was an old pupil, the son of respectable parents; in his pocket was a book entitled "Industry Without Honesty," and his ambition was to become a Chevalier d'Industrie of the sort he had been reading about. It is said that Dumas's story, "Monsieur Fromentin," so spread the rage for lottery gambling that the author in great grief bought up and burned every copy he could lay hands on. For generations English youth have turned footpads or thieves, in emulation of Sir Richard Turpin, Lord John Sheppard, and other knights of the road whose careers are set forth in the shining pages of biographical romance. French youngsters have a like exemplar in Louis Cartouche. Two San Francisco lads are now in jail for trying to rob a stagecoach, in Claude Duval style—luckless little victims, knocked down by the passengers in a way not recorded in the novels that had ruined them. Lads are for ever running away to sea in imitation of some Jack Halyard or Ben the Bo's'n; and surely we know that urchins of all ages and sizes are picked up on their way west to "fight Injuns," thanks to their dogs'-eared dime novels narrating the prowess of Buffalo Bills and Texas Jacks. Boyish sympathy goes out toward the Paul Cliffords, the Arams of romance. I remember, as if it were of yesterday, the sad fate of Red Rover, and how the overwrought little reader, when he came to the hero's death, put by the book that he could not finish, and walked about in the twilight of a Saturday whose hours had slipped unnoticed away, inconsolable with sympathy and grief.

But the preacher need not rest his case on "Mike Martin," or "Rinaldo Rinaldini," or "The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main," or any of the predatory heroes embalmed in story for the improvement of youth, since he has also the field of poisonous French romance to complain of, with its imitations in our tongue. In short, he can indict in a lump the bad books of fiction, and against the good he may charge that they exhaust our tears and passion on imaginary distresses.

Still, nothing would then have been said of novels which could not be said in a degree of the newspapers, the drama, the law, the pulpit itself. We must not judge them by their worst fruits. "Pamela" was praised from the pulpits of its day, although, to be sure, it would hardly now be given to young women. I well remember, when prowling about the homestead bookcase, coming upon Rowland Hill's "Village Dialogues." Their characters were fictitious, the distresses imaginary; still I presume the St. Louis preacher would not object to "Socinianism Unmasked," the "Evils of Seduction," and the "Awful Death of Alderman Greedy." Everybody sees how fiction is a weapon of philanthropy. Christ himself taught by parables. Clergymen resort to romance to achieve what the sermon cannot do, and men of science to achieve what the essay cannot do. Religious newspapers publish serial novels. The anti-slavery, temperance, prison reform, and poor law agitations owe immeasurably to novels. Daniel Webster said of Dickens that he had done more to ameliorate the condition of the British poor than all the statesmen that ever sat in Parliament. And this present wonderful movement of the Jews to recover Palestine—what does it not owe to a novel?

A noble influence, too, comes from some novels that do not aim to be doctrinaire or proselyting. A story of Thackeray is a tonic to the scorn of base action; a story of Charles Kingsley is a trumpet call to Christian duty; a story of George Eliot is an inspiration to high thought and honorable living. Some of her sisterhood are probably capable of uneasily disliking George Eliot because she has a depth of intelligence quite beyond their plummet, which the world admires; but I should think that most women would be proud of the strength and vast influence of one who, in succeeding to the royal line of feminine novelists, has carried its triumphs far beyond anything achieved by Miss Burney, Jane Austin, Miss Porter, Miss Martineau, Charlotte Bronté, and Georges Sand.

We lay aside some authors with a sense of fulness that will not let the attention be immediately distracted to other persons and things. The greatest books put the mind at once into a fruitful state, as if it had received seed of instantly bearing power. Less great books may still give us the desire to imitate their heroes or follow their maxims. Only dead books neither beget new thoughts nor incite by examples. As the characters of children are partly moulded from their surroundings, so the imaginary friends of fiction are mental associates for good or ill. We take heart and hope from the novelist's scenes, or are so wrought upon by his personages that these phantoms move us more than most real men and women. If all we know of Adam Bede is what we read of him, pray what more do we know of Czar Peter? Instead of lamenting the fascination of the story-wright, let us rather plead for its noble use, saying of him, as a great and generous brother writer said of Dickens: "What a place it is to hold in the affections of men! What an awful responsibility hanging over a writer! What man holding such a place, and knowing that his words go forth to vast congregations of mankind—to grown folks, to their children, and perhaps to their children's children—but must think of his calling with a solemn and humble heart! May love and truth guide such a man always!"

Most of us have known an era in life when we looked down on novels like Miss Muloch's, with their gentle refrain: "He was so handsome, how could she help loving him? She was so beautiful, what could he do but adore her?" Better worth reading were stories of frontier trails, knightly tourneys, chases of smuggler and corvette—those stimulating feasts that we swallowed rather too hastily for health, and which, I grant the St. Louis preacher, formed so rich a mixture that nightmare sometimes followed a pâté of adventure and murder on which we had too bountifully supped.

Yet who would willingly forget the terror of that moment when Crusoe discovers the footprints on the lonely shore? I fancy many a lad has borne testimony to the genius of De Foe by popping his curly pate beneath the bed clothes at that awful juncture, in as great fright as if he himself had just seen the track in the sand. Or perhaps, living by the seaside, he has rowed his wherry to some neighboring bunch of rocks, to take possession of it, Crusoe fashion, bribing some less enthusiastic companion to act the rôle of Friday, until, unworthy of his faithful prototype, the extemporized Friday sulks and throws off his allegiance. I lately heard that Crusoe's isle was now tenanted by industrious German colonists, who had planted and stocked it, not like Robinson, but under all agricultural advantages, and that Juan Fernandez was a regular entrepot for whale ships. Think of it! Yankee tars revictual where the lonely mariner saw cannibals feasting! But it is only Selkirk's domain that is thus invaded; Crusoe's right there is none to dispute; safe in the keeping of genius, his monarchy can no more be annexed by filibuster or colonist than the magic isle of Prospero.

Musing on popular novels, one is struck by the changes of fashion in fiction. Who now reads "Clarissa," which Dr. Johnson pronounced the first book of the world for knowledge of the human heart; which D'Alembert styled unapproachably greater than any romance ever written in any language; for which Diderot predicted an immortality as illustrious as that of Homer? Who reads "Cecilia," which Burke sat up all night to read? The romances over which our great grandmothers simpered and sighed are to our age intolerable bores. Reade, not Richardson, is the man for our money; Miss Braddon, not Miss Burney, is the rage at the circulating libraries. Whither are gone those stories that a few years ago could not be printed fast enough—"The Lamplighter," "Hot Corn," and the rest of that brood? They are hidden under dust in the alcoves, or have been carted off to the pulp mill. Could mind of man have fancied, an oblivion so swift for those favorites of the public? Could mortal ken have foretold its present fate for the "Wide, Wide World"?—a story now quite dropped out of sight, but once the town's rage, and whose heroine I remember as a sort of inexhaustible human watering cart with the tear tap always turned on.

What has become, too, of those learned novels, patterned after Bulwer—extracts from Lemprière in dialogue form, sandwiched with layers of low life? "Surely, my dear niece, you remember what Athenæaus quotes on this subject from the Leontium of Hermesianax of Colophon, the friend of Philetas?" "Perfectly, aunt, and methinks mention is also made of the same elegiac poem in Pausanias, and again in Antoninus Liberalis, the latter saying," etc. Where, I say, are the novels in that vein, with their charming mixture of murder, mythology, and metaphysics? They have their run, strut their brief hour, and give way to some "Madcap Violet" or "Helen's Babies." Never fear a lack of fresh novels. If the lads lose Mayne Reid, they find Jules Verne. The secret is an open one: the novel is the best paid branch of literature—always excepting Mr. Gladstone's pamphlets. Times have changed since "Evelina" was sold for £20.

Perhaps of all novelists Victor Hugo receives the largest earnings for a single work. One of his clerical enemies, Mgr. de Ségur, has bitterly attacked him for his gains—"$100,000 for 'Les Misérables' alone," said the critic in angry extravagance. But Hugo's admirers will not grudge his gains.

The English have put a premium on prolix novels by giving them a regulation length of just three volumes, to be cold for a guinea and a half. This droll uniformity has much less basis of reason than the old custom of writing tragedies and comedies just five acts long; for there is sense in making a play last out an evening. Trouble to writer and weariness to reader must come of spinning a novel against space, overlaying a plot with trivial incidents, and stuffing a story with padding, merely to reach a standard of length both arbitrary and absurd. Yet prodigious was the patience of our novel-reading ancestry prior to Fielding. The "Grand Cyrus" was issued in ten volumes, "Clarissa Harlowe" in eight, and sometimes an heroic romance reached twelve. Jules Janin puts Richardson on Shakespeare's level, and modern French readers appreciate "Clarissa" more than English—but they get it abridged. Mr. Dallas, following Janin, has abridged the famous novel with care for English readers, too, and a more recent editor likewise aims to evade its monotony by striking out "tediously unnecessary passages and unimportant details," though old-fashioned readers may still like to take "Clarissa" in all its prolixity. As to the romances that preceded it, they seem to our age duller than any ever written—"huge folios of inanity," said Sir Walter, "over which our ancestors yawned themselves to sleep." I warrant their descendants never yawned over "Guy Mannering."

Still, modern novels as a class are more apt to be voluble than prolix. Story-writers like Trollope, Mrs. Edwards, and McCarthy amaze us at the ductility which the English tongue assumes for them. They seem less to compose than to reel off their pages. To Trollope's free-and-easy flow is there any stop? None, surely, through mental exhaustion. His bright loquacity and productiveness remind one of that bewitched salt mill in the story of Nicholas, which ground on for ever, without effort or wearying, until it had salted the whole sea.

Something was said, in a former "Driftwood" essay, regarding the frequent dedications of private fortunes, in America, to public uses. We see a philanthropic millionaire stripping himself, even in hale life, of all his wealth save a slender annuity and the portions reserved for his heirs and legatees; or we see the bulk of a great fortune given to charities in a testamentary bequest.

Certainly Americans, though often overreaching in making a fortune, are proverbially lavish in distributing it. New England, the home of 'cuteness in trade, is extraordinary for the number and extent of its charitable bequests. Americans may do things that an Englishman will not in getting the best of a bargain, but quite as quickly as the average Englishman, they give the whole fruits of the sharp trade to some sufferer. Unscrupulous in a contest of wits, they yet have bowels of compassion beyond many other nations, are perhaps the least cruel of all, and have made American private endowments of educational and charitable institutions famous the world over.

But can we put all the credit of these endowments to the score of national character? Is not some part traceable simply to the abolition of the old privileges and customs of primogeniture? I fancy that were it American usage to pass the bulk of great estates to a succession of eldest sons or to the nearest heir, we should see fewer great bequests to the public. "The heir" would ever be an overshadowing figure in the rich man's plans; whereas now, if kith and kin be well provided for, no one finds it strange that the bulk of an estate like Mr. Peabody's or Mr. Lick's or Mr. Cornell's should go to public education and charity.

Our English-speaking race, as we all know, has ever had a thirst for posthumous power; so bent were our ancestors on tying up their estates in perpetuity that when the law came in to forbid it many were the devices to prolong the grasp. Privileges of primogeniture are still jealously guarded in England, for the sake of accumulating family honors and wealth. Even in America older brothers sometimes oddly think themselves sole managers of the parental estate—a fancy due, perhaps, to the influence of our English derivation. We see its traces where even an estimable oldest brother, as self-appointed head of the family, deals with the inherited estate as if it were all his own: prescribes the household expenses, "invests" the portions of others as may seem good unto him, loses them in his speculations without qualm of conscience, or doles out from his gains to his younger brothers and sisters with the air of a munificent prince giving bounties. Paterfamilias was eminently just in taking him into the historic firm on a third share, but it would be preposterous to do the same by brother Tom. Let Tom and Harry, after a few years' longer probation of clerkship than Primus needed, be generously taken in; but let them divide a third of the partnership between them. Primogeniture, I repeat, still leaves its curious traces with us in these unpleasant delusions of the oldest male child; but the abolition of its ancient privileges, and the habit of distributing fortunes and opportunities share and share alike among equal heirs or legatees, have accustomed many rich men besides childless millionaires to sparing a generous portion for charities and colleges. This view is strengthened by observing that the famous dedications of private fortunes to public uses are made by men who have earned their wealth, not inherited it. Inherited wealth is more likely to be transmitted to its owner's heirs than broken up for public benefactions. And so, in fine, we may trace a part of our national celebrity for public bequests to the lack of primogenital laws and of any social system of retaining the bulk of family wealth in a line of eldest sons.

We are sometimes unjust toward men of prodigious wealth who disappoint public expectation by bequeathing nothing for public purposes. The American who keeps fifty millions intact in his family only does what is customary in other lands, and what may be done without reproach. If he break no law, a man may do what he will with his own—although, to be sure, so may his countrymen talk as they will of what he does; and they will hardly lump in a common eulogy the public benefactors and those who devise none of their prodigious wealth to the public weal. For these latter the one or two of their fellow men who have become millionaires by their wills may properly raise memorial churches, and stained windows, and chimes of bells; but such wills have earned no pæans of public gratitude.

One of the first fruits of the daguerreotypic art was the suggestion that unknown murderers could be detected by photographing the last image left on the retina of the murdered person's eye. The idea that this could be done seems to have taken strong hold of many imaginations, and we believe this suggestion is repeated to the police authorities of New York on the occurrence of every noticeable and mysterious murder. That such a detective task will ever be accomplished by photography is extremely doubtful, on account of the length of time that usually passes before the discovery of a murder. But science has now advanced so far that the image on the retina has been fixed and photographed. This has been done by Prof. Kühne of Heidelberg, but not with human subjects, as decapitation is one necessary part of the process. Prof. Kühne placed a rabbit four and a half feet from a closed window, in the shutter of which was an opening twelve inches square. The animal's head was first covered by a black cloth for five minutes and then exposed for three minutes. The head was then instantly cut off, and one eye taken out in a room illuminated by yellow light. The eyeball was opened and instantly plunged into a five per cent. solution of alum. This occupied two minutes, and the other eye, still remaining in the head, was then exposed at the window just as the first had been. It was then taken out and placed in the alum solution like its fellow. The next morning the two retinæ were carefully isolated, separated from the optic nerve, and turned. On a beautiful rose red ground a sharp image, somewhat more than one millimetre (one-twenty-fifth inch) square was found. The image on the first retina—that which was exposed during life—was somewhat reddish and not so sharply defined as that on the other.

This fixature of the last impression on the living retina is by no means an accidental discovery, but is the final step in a laborious series of delicate researches. Nor is it the triumph of one man alone, the preliminary work having been performed by two distinguished physiologists. Prof. Boll of Rome discovered that the external layer of the retina in all living animals has a purple color, which is destroyed by light. During life the color is perpetually restored by darkness, but after death, Boll thought, it disappeared entirely. Prof. Kühne followed up this wonderful discovery and confirmed it in general, while correcting some of Boll's conclusions. He first ascertained that death does not necessarily destroy the color, since a retina that is not exposed to white light, but is kept in a room lighted by a yellow sodium flame, retains this "vision purple" for twenty-four or twenty-eight hours, even though incipient decomposition may have set in. It is destroyed at the temperature of boiling water or by immersion in alcohol, glacial acetic acid, and strong solution of soda, but in strong ammonia, saturated solution of common salt, or glycerine, it remains undiminished for twenty-four hours. On testing the effect of different colored lights upon this "vision purple," he found that the most refrangible rays change it most, while red has hardly more effect than yellow light. The color is not so delicate as Boll supposed. A few moments' exposure to daylight does not bleach the retina. This requires exposure for a considerable time to direct sunlight. The source of the color was found to be the inner surface of the choroid upon which the retina lies. If a portion of the retina is disengaged from the choroid and raised up, it bleaches, though the remainder, still attached portion, retains its color. If the raised flap is carefully replaced upon the choroid, it regains its purple hue. This restoration is believed to be a function of the living choroid, and probably of the retinal epithelium, though it is independent of the black pigment which this epithelium contains. This vision purple is the latest discovery in optical physiology, and it cannot fail to be a most important one. How far it will alter the received views upon the subject of changes in the strength of vision, which are now attributed to alterations in the distance of the crystalline lens, cannot be foretold. But it may be found possible to stimulate by drugs the restorative action of the choroid, and thus by gaining increased "definition," improve weak sight. As to the detection of murderers by photographing the last retinal picture from their victims' eyes, while these discoveries do not leave this an impossibility, they do not much improve the probability of its ever being done. Very often the sight of the assassin is not the last which comes within the victim's vision. Too long a time also usually elapses before discovery. These and similar difficulties must prevent the utilization of these discoveries in this direction, even if they should prove to be in themselves all that is hoped. The retinal picture has not yet been photographed, but it seems probable, from the above recounted experiments, that it can be.

Dr. H. C. Bolton of the New York School of Mines has made the interesting discovery that minerals may be decomposed by boiling with organic acids, just as they are by treatment with the strong mineral acids. He has tried the action of such acids as citric, tartaric, oxalic, acetic, malic, and other acids, on finely powdered carbonates, silicates, sulphides, and other classes of mineral. All the carbonates examined (fourteen in number) dissolved with effervescence, sulphides were decomposed with evolution of sulphuretted hydrogen, and silicates with formation of gelatinous silica. This important discovery will greatly add to the resources of the mineralogist, who is compelled to do much of his work in the field. Hitherto he has been debarred from using the mineral acids (the action of which sometimes forms a decisive test) by the impossibility of carrying them in the pocket or wallet without danger. The organic acids are solid, and can be conveniently stowed away. Their action, however, is not so decided as that of the mineral acids, but this is not always a defect, but offers additional means of determination. For example, all the specimens of bornite and pyrrhotite examined yielded sulphuretted hydrogen with tartaric, citric, and oxalic acids, but chalcopyrite and pyrite do not. On the other hand, the use of the organic acids may give rise in some cases to the formation of nitric acid, which in its nascent condition will afford a very powerful agent of decomposition. Thus all the sulphides examined (seventeen), with the exception of molybdenite and cinnabar, were quickly attacked by citric or tartaric acid, to which a little potassium nitrate had been added. Potassium chlorate produces a similar though slower action. These examples are sufficient to show that Dr. Bolton has found a promising field of inquiry, and, singular to say, considering the attention which the action of organic acids has received, it is a field believed to be entirely new. He is continuing his researches.

Prof. Mayer has turned his valuable researches in acoustical science to æsthetic uses, and criticises the present mode of arranging orchestras, the defects of which he proves by experiment. He took an old silver watch, beating four times a second, and caused it to gain thirty seconds per hour, so that every two minutes its tick coincided with the tick of an ordinary spring balance American clock, also making four beats the second. The latter was placed several feet, and the watch two feet, from the ear. In this position the ticks of the watch were lost for nine seconds, about the time of coincidence. The tick of the watch disappeared, "with a sharp chirp, like a cricket's, and reappears with a sound like that made by a boy's marble falling upon others in his pocket." This experiment shows most effectively that one sonorous impression may overcome and obliterate another, but to do so it must be more intense and of lower pitch. If of higher pitch, it cannot neutralize the other sound, however much the first may exceed the latter in intensity. This discovery, Prof. Mayer thinks, is, "next after the demonstration of the fact that the ear is capable of analyzing compound musical sounds into their constituent or partial simple tones, the most important addition yet made to our knowledge of hearing." High sounds cannot obliterate low ones, but, on the contrary, the sensation of each partial tone of which compound musical sounds is formed is diminished by all the tones below it in pitch. These discoveries he applies to orchestration as follows: "In a large orchestra I have repeatedly witnessed the complete obliteration of all sounds from violins by the deeper and more intense sounds of the wind instruments, the double basses alone holding their own. I have also observed the sounds of the clarinets lose their peculiar quality of tone, and consequent charm, from the same cause. No doubt the conductor of the orchestra heard all his violins ranged as they always are, close around him, and did not perceive that his clarinets had lost that quality of tone on which the composer had relied for producing a special character of expression. The function of the conductor seems to be threefold: First, to regulate and fix the time. Second, to regulate the intensity of the sounds produced by individual instruments, for the purpose of expression. Third, to give the proper quality of tone or feeling to the whole sound of his orchestra, considered as a single instrument, by regulating the relative intensities of sounds produced by the various classes of instruments employed. Now this third function, the regulation of relative intensities, has hitherto been discharged through the judgment of the ears of a conductor, who is placed in the most disadvantageous position for judging by his ears. Surely he is not conducting for his own personal gratification, but for the gratification of his audience, whose ears stand in very different relations from his own in respect to their distance from the various instruments in action. Is it not time that he should pay more attention to his third function, and place himself in the position occupied by an average hearer? This position would be elevated, and somewhere in the midst of the audience. That the position at present occupied by the conductor of an orchestra has often allowed him to deprive his audience of some of the most delicate and touching qualities of orchestral and concerted vocal music, I have no doubt, and I firmly believe that when he changes his position in the manner now proposed, the audience will have some of that enjoyment which he has too long kept to himself." These views were verified by Prof. Mayer visiting different parts of the house during a public performance, and observing the different effects of the music. It is not to be supposed that a satisfactory change can be made at once. A quantitative analysis of the compound tones of all musical instruments must be made. On this work he is now engaged. One noteworthy result of his researches is the opinion that orchestral instruments should be made on different principles from those used in solos. The reason for this is, that certain over tones should predominate in orchestral instruments in order to give them their due expression in the midst of graver sounds. These exaggerated peculiarities will unfit them to be played alone. If the learned Professor's views are carried out, a theatre or opera manager will be obliged to own the instruments of his orchestra, and perhaps to have different sets for different musical works!

The direct source of the nitrogen contained in plants is an unsolved mystery, though the ultimate source of much of it must be the atmosphere. A wheat crop gave on unmanured land from 15.9 to 25.2 pounds of nitrogen, per acre, yearly, but the amount found in the rainwater of the same district was only from 6.23 to 8.58 pounds per acre. Singular to say, the use of a fertilizer, called a "complex mineral manure" in the reports, added only about two pounds of nitrogen per acre. But the case is altered when potassic manure is used, and especially when applied to land bearing beans. Such a crop gains 13½ pounds of nitrogen by the addition of saltpetre, or 28 per cent. A similar result was obtained with clover—a leguminous crop. A potassic fertilizer increased the yield of nitrogen one-third. One of the anomalies observed in the study of plant growth is that a good crop instead of exhausting the soil seems to improve it. The better the crop, and the more nitrogen removed, the better will the succeeding crop be. Thus clover removes a much larger amount of nitrogen than wheat, the quantity being on unmanured land, say 30.5 pounds per acre for clover and 20.7 pounds for wheat, and yet the wheat crop is improved if clover is occasionally interpolated or a fair rotation of crops kept up. In 1874 barley succeeding barley gave 39.1 pounds of nitrogen, while barley following clover gave 69.4 pounds of nitrogen withdrawn from an acre of soil. These amounts take no account of the nitrogen carried off by the drainage of the soil, which analysis of drainwater proves to be considerable. The source of all this nitrogen is undoubtedly the atmosphere, but the mode of conveying it into the soil is unknown.

Few persons are aware of the wealth of what are called "prehistoric" remains. The finding of an isolated skeleton, in a cave, with stalagmite completely covering it, is accepted as an occurrence that is not very remarkable. However ancient it may be, the preservation of the bones is exceptional. But a late discovery in France, near Hastiére-sur-Meuse, is of much more importance. No less than fifteen burial caverns were found, and from the five that have been explored no less than fifty-five human skeletons have been taken, among which are thirty-five well-preserved skulls.

In addition to these "finds" the plateaux yielded sixteen dwelling places of the old inhabitants from which have been taken a quantity of stone implements. These show the age of the skeletons to be that of the polished, or "new" stone period. The prospect of being able to restore the men who lived before the earliest recorded dates is now very good. Some hundreds of their skeletons, with a valuable series of skulls and enormous collections of their handiworks, are now in the museums of the world.

Some of the more remarkable of these discoveries have been alluded to at different times in this Miscellany. One of the latest and most interesting consists of some pointed sticks, found in a Swiss coal bed, the pointing having been done by hand. It may be thought difficult to establish so remarkable a fact in a mass of coal in which the rods have been pressed flat and perfectly carbonized. But a microscopic examination of one of these pieces shows that the fibres of the wood run in two different directions, the two systems meeting at an angle. One of the sticks has had its end shaved down, the cut surface being then applied to the other, and some substance, probably bark, being wound around the joint. The marks of this wrapping are perfectly distinct, and in one case the wrapping itself remains. As the bark used for this purpose was different from the natural bark of the rods, the microscope is now able to distinguish between the two, though both are turned to coal. Descriptions and illustrations of these interesting relics are published in the "Primeval World of Switzerland," by the celebrated Professor Heer. There is no doubt they formed part of some basket work. Their age is still doubtful, but must be very great.

The investigation instituted by the French Academy of Sciences into the best means of destroying the phylloxera, or grapevine pest, has ended in the conclusion that the sulpho-carbonates are a complete antidote to these destructive insects. This result has already been announced in this Miscellany, and it only remains to explain the action of these salts. Under the influence of carbonic acid, which is always present in soils containing organic substances, they decompose. A carbonate is formed, and sulphuretted hydrogen and bisulphide of carbon are evolved. Both of these are deadly poisons to the phylloxera as well as to man. To complete the fitness of these salts to agricultural uses, the sulpho-carbonate of potassium has an excellent effect upon the vines, potash being one of the most valued constituents of manures. Success in using the antidote depends upon bringing it in contact with every part of the root-system of the plant. This can be done by dissolving the salt, but it is better to mix it with half its weight of lime and sprinkle it on the ground at the beginning of the rainy season, which in France lasts from October to March. M. Mouillefert, who examined this subject under direction of the Academy, reports that as an antidote the sulpho-carbonates are a proved success, and nothing now remains but to educate the vine growers to their proper use. This subject has peculiar interest to Americans, for the phylloxera is our evil gift to France. It is matter of common observation, both in animal and vegetable physiology, that one race or species may live in comfort with an enemy—be it a disease or a parasite—which is destructive to other species. The American vineyards are by no means free from the phylloxera. On the contrary, they are full of this insect, but the vines do not lose their hardiness in consequence. They flourish in spite of their enemy.

Prof. Langley of the Allegheny observatory has made a direct comparison between the heat of the sun and that of the flame in the mouth of a Bessemer steel convertor. Estimates of the sun's temperature probably vary among themselves more than any other attempts at scientific knowledge, ranging from 10,000,000 down to 1,500 deg. We have already published in this Miscellany some late French determinations which place it below 2,000 deg. C. Prof. Langley's choice of a standard is excellent. The flame of the Bessemer convertor results from the burning of carbon, silicon, iron, and manganese within the vessels, the result of using this once novel fuel being a heat so great that the most refractory iron or steel is melted to thin fluidity and so much excess of heat imparted, that the mass will remain fluid, without further heat, a considerable time. The temperature of the flame is not known, though 4,000 or 5,000 deg. Fahr. has been suggested as an approximation. This does not vitiate Prof. Langley's experiment, for he used it merely as one of the most powerful artificial sources of light obtainable. His method was to compare its light with that of the sun by an arrangement that resembled a camera obscura, the light from the sun and the flame being repeatedly superposed upon each other. The arrangement worked admirably, and the observer was able to note the spots on the sun. He found that the intensely hot flame was like a dark spot compared to the sun's light and that the latter must be at least 2,168 times hotter than the flame. This carries the result in favor of the largest estimates. The flame of the convertor is not so hot as the melted steel from which it comes, but it offers better opportunities for observation. The steel itself as it was poured from the convertor was found to be not more than one-sixty-fourth as hot as the sun.

Mr. George Darwin has brought forward statistics to prove that the intermarriage of near relations does not have the unfavorable effect upon offspring which is commonly supposed. But the director of the Warsaw Institute for Deaf Mutes and the Blind combats this theory, and says that the registers kept at that and similar institutions support the popular opinion. The system of instruction at this asylum is very perfect. Mimic language being almost totally prohibited, the pupils are taught to understand the motion of the lips and to speak more or less distinctly; and after a four years' residence in the Institute, they generally attain in both a high degree of perfection. With great judgment the managers have made the technical instruction at the school of the best kind, so that the pupils readily find situations on leaving, and indeed there are never enough to fill all the situations offered. This appears to be the true method with students who would otherwise find themselves at a disadvantage with more favored competitors.

The well-known dispute as to the "compass plant" has recently been settled by Mr. Meehan in a manner which recalls the opinions of judicial officers who deal with other than scientific questions. One party of observers say that this plant always points its leaves north and south, the leaf standing edgewise to the earth and the two sides facing to the east and west. This plant is found on the prairies and plains, and is known scientifically as silphium lacinatum, popularly as pilot weed, rosin weed, and turpentine weed. It stands from three to six feet high, and the trappers and Indians are said to find their way in dark nights by feeling its leaves. These assertions of polarity are denied by the other party. Mr. Meehan now says that both are right. When the leaves are young and small the pointing to the north is unmistakable, but when they become larger, are beaten down by rains, and weighted with sand and dew, they are not able to recover their lost bearings.

Balloon ascensions are quietly but frequently used by scientific men for the purpose of studying the upper parts of the atmosphere. Russian savants have lately paid especial attention to this work, but have been prevented from extending their examinations to any great height. Prof. Mendeleef of St. Petersburg now undertakes to accomplish this also, and devotes the profits of two books published by him to the construction of a balloon. This is to have a capacity of two or three thousand cubic yards, and will be filled by means arranged by him. France also pursues this path of investigation with great vigor. Count Bathyani recently took up a radiometer to a height of about a mile. At the earth it made in the shade thirty-five revolutions per minute. At the height of 5,000 feet it made sixty-four revolutions, also in the shade. In the sun, 2,300 feet above the earth, it made fifty-four revolutions. Count Bathyani also took up an ethereal apparatus for the purpose of condensing water vapor at various heights, in order to collect the microscopic particles floating in the air. This line of investigation will be continued by means of an apparatus filled with methylic ether. This will give a temperature of -20 deg. C., or -15 deg. Fahr. The moisture will condense as ice which will be scraped off the vessels. All the solid particles floating in the immediate neighborhood of the apparatus will also be obtained.

The mining of lead is a business in which Americans are successfully using the remarkable resources of this country. In 1866 the amount made here was only 14,342 tons, while we imported 23,330 tons. In fact the importation has exceeded the home product ever since 1850 with the exception of one year—1860. This improper "balance of trade" was due to the system and intelligence with which foreign smelting works are conducted, and the ignorance which prevailed in our own country where the mining resources are really superior to those of Europe. But this state of things has changed with the foundation of mining schools and the spread of mining knowledge in this country. In 1873 the "balance" turned the other way. The importations have been since then 22,114, 17,674, 7,305, and 4,685 tons; while the home product shows a rise corresponding closely to this falling off, being for the same years, 37,983, 46,500, 53,250, 57,210 tons. In fact we export as much as we import, for the 4,300 tons of pig lead imported is balanced by the quantity sent back to Europe in the form of bullets. This change in the business is traceable to the fact that refining has been found to pay in America, and our lead is thus in request by the white paint makers. For years our product lay under a stigma, and it was said that it was not suited to the manufacture of the best lead. This evident error has been corrected; the refined virgin lead of Missouri and Illinois makes the best white lead, and the mining of the metal is not likely to suffer from so many causes of depression again. The Territories are now large producers, the five principal sources of supply being in 1876—

The production of some few selected places was: Palmer mine, 466 tons, Mine LaMotte, 1,657, St. Joseph mines, 1,938, Granby mines, 4,423 tons, these being all Missouri; Omaha smelting works, 11,336 tons, St. Louis and Pennsylvania smelting works, 8,000 tons, New York and Newark works, 7,776 tons, California, Nevada, and Utah works, 6,518. The latter four items amount to 33,630 tons, which is all made from silver-lead ores, mostly by the zinc process of refining.

In fitting out the lately returned Arctic expedition the English government attempted to make it the last one of its kind. That is, it appropriated a million dollars and engaged the coöperation of the best scientific authorities, and sent out its best men, who departed in the full knowledge that their enterprise had aroused a real national enthusiasm, and that the most strenuous effort was expected of them. The purpose of these accumulated advantages was to so fortify the voyagers that their success or failure should satisfy the world upon the subject of polar exploration. They went, struggled so bravely that their loss of life was greater than on any expedition since the fatal one under Franklin—and came back without succeeding. Their commander deliberately declared success to be impossible from the nature of the difficulties which always exist near the pole, and that this goal of nine centuries' effort would never be reached.

But, in spite of Captain Nares's positiveness, the Arctic question is now just where he took it up. Seventy miles has been added to the distance covered, but the world is just as unsatisfied as ever, and polar exploration is just as ardently desired as ever. The spirit is unchanged, but the name is altered. Against the uniform report of the explorers who have been so numerous during the last decade that a mere journey to the pole is not likely to yield much addition to man's knowledge, it is hardly possible for even the most enthusiastic navigators to stand up. But when Lieutenant Payer, on returning from the Austrian expedition north of Spitzbergen, declared that there was but one way to make the icy northern regions yield up their scientific secrets, and that was by colonizing parties within the Arctic circle, to stay there long enough to make a continued study of its meteorology and physics, the scientific world gave him its unqualified support. Several nations have been reported to be on the point of organizing such a colony, but America seems likely to be the first to act energetically on the suggestion. Captain Howgate of the Signal Service Corps has petitioned Congress for $50,000 with which to send out a company of forty men, provided with supplies for three years. They are to be taken by a government vessel to some point between 81 deg. and 83 deg., the route taken to be by Smith's sound. There they will be left, the vessel returning. An annual visit is to be paid the colony, but otherwise they will be left to themselves. To prevent the scandalous quarrels which ruined the Polaris expedition, the whole party will be enlisted in the United States service, and strict discipline will be maintained. The fact that the suggestion for the expedition comes from a Signal Service officer will give the country confidence in the plan, and also ensure proper attention to that science which may hope to reap the greatest benefit from Arctic observations, the science of meteorology and cosmic physics. The scientific members of the party are to include an astronomer, one or more meteorologists, and two or more naturalists. The project is by no means on a sure footing as yet, but it has got so far as to be favorably reported on by the Naval Committee of the House of Representatives. It certainly embodies the plan which scientific men all over the world unite in endorsing, and which seems to offer the most promising rewards to effort. But disguise the fact as we will, it still remains true that it is in exploration and discovery that such schemes find their surest ground for support. The gains to science have uniformly been greater than the satisfaction to curiosity, and this plan is professedly made with especial care to secure the greatest return to science. But the march to the pole is the thing that is inviting, and it entices now just as strongly, after all the failures, as it ever did. Captain Howgate's plan provides for this. During their three years' stay his men will be on the watch for opportunities to advance northward, and if they find none, they intend to make such a study of currents, ice, and seasons as will give the cue to others in after years.

The principal difficulties in pushing far northward may be summed up in a few words. The attempt must be made in summer (the Arctic day), when the ice is liable to break up. A boat must therefore be carried, and this makes the sledge train heavy. The ice to be crossed is extremely rough, and explorers have not been able to find smoother spots of any considerable size. By rough we mean that it is covered with deep rifts, blocks and snow drifts from five to twenty feet or more in height, and these impediments cover the surface so closely as to leave no alternative but a slow tugging of the sledges over the most available parts of them. The English expedition found these drifts to lie directly across their course, having been formed by a west wind. The labor of crossing them is performed with the thermometer far below the freezing point. There is no fire, provisions have to be carefully husbanded, sleep is dangerous unless frequently broken, and if one of the party breaks down, the strength of the whole is seriously diminished, while its task is greatly increased. Such has been the history of exploration up to within 400 miles of the pole, and it is at least probable that many of these difficulties will be intensified as that point is reached. The north pole may now be considered to occupy the centre of an area 800 miles in diameter, the condition of things within which it is not possible even to conjecture. We may plausibly suppose (1) that it is not land, for the ice of the Arctic sea is never more than 150 feet thick, and there are no glaciers; (2) that it is a shallow sea; and (3) that the precipitation of moisture in the centre must be considerable, as the ice is moving in all directions from the centre during the summer. The theory of an open sea at the pole is now discarded by most scientific men, and, we believe, by all experienced explorers except Hayes. In the present state of knowledge it rests upon the presumption that the polar sea is very shallow, so that the deep and warm currents which are known to enter the Arctic ocean may be forced to the surface there; and that the ice drift removes the ice as fast as it forms.

The Portuguese government has decided to spend $100,000 on a scientific expedition to Central Africa.

Every exploring expedition across the continent of Australia has to taste the extreme difficulties of travel in the barren parts of that extraordinary country. Mr. Giles, the last explorer, says: "From the end of the watershed in longitude 120 deg. 20 min., the latitude being near the 24th parallel, to the Rawlinson range of my last horse expedition, in longitude 127 deg., the country was all open spinifex sandhill desert. At starting into the desert most of the camels were continually poisoned, the plant which poisoned them not being allied in any way to the poison plants of the settled districts of Western Australia. I now know it well, and have brought specimens. The longest stretch without water was a ten days' march. One old cow camel died after reaching the water. We had some rain on May 8 before reaching the Ashburton, and some of it must have extended into the desert. It was the only chance water we obtained."

Prof. Nordenskiold, who sailed from Norway to the mouth of the river Jenesei, in Siberia, is now preparing for a voyage from that river along the shore of the Arctic sea to Behrings straits. It may be that the navigation of the Arctic sea, which is impossible away from land, can be accomplished in its neighborhood. The return journey will be made by way of China, India, and the Suez canal, the whole forming the most remarkable voyage ever undertaken by one ship.

Bradford, Pennsylvania, is lighted with gas from a well situated about two miles from town.

In the United States heavy rains are less frequent between 4:35 p.m. and 11 p.m than at any other part of the day. The greatest number are between 7:35 a.m. and 4:35 p.m.

In the Alps the snow line is 8,900 feet high on the northern side and 9,200 feet on the southern. In the Himalayas it is 16,600 feet on the northern side and 16,200 feet on the southern.

The eminent physicist, Prof. J. C. Poggendorff, for many years professor in the Berlin university, and editor of "Poggendorff's Annalen," has died in Berlin, in his eighty-first year.

The magnitude of the prizes which may be drawn by exploring antiquarians in Europe is shown by the recent finding near Verona, Italy, of two large amphoræ containing 50,000 coins of the Emperor Gallienus and his immediate successors. The majority of them are of bronze, but there are some of silver. Nearly all of them are in the finest state of preservation, and are so fresh from the mint as to make it evident that they were never put into circulation.

Prof. Loomis says that in this country great rainfalls do not generally continue over eight hours, and very rarely do they continue for twenty-four hours, either at one place or a number of places considered successively.

According to the Washington "Gazette," the paint makers are grinding up Egyptian mummies for the fine brown color which they make when powdered. This color is due to the asphaltum with which the cloths wrapped around the mummies was impregnated.

The Washington monument is probably doomed. In its present condition it is a grievous eyesore in the Washington landscape, and a board of army engineers now say that its foundations are not strong enough to permit raising the shaft higher, and it is proposed to take it down.

Mr. H. Byasson has produced a kind of petroleum by the mutual action of steam, carbonic acid, and sulphuretted hydrogen in presence of iron at a white heat. All these substances are known to be contained in the rocks of the earth's crust, which also has at various times afforded the necessary heat.

Gold, though the principal standard of value, is not moved about the world much. The entire import of London, the greatest banking city in the world, was only $116,222,350 in 1876, and the export was $81,097,850. Nearly the whole of the difference went into the vaults of the Bank of England, the stock of which increased $34,992,020.

Prof. Hawes has proved the existence of metallic iron in the basalt dykes of New Hampshire. It exists as small specks in the centre of grains of magnetite. This contradicts the theory that the metallic iron of the dykes is the result of carbon acting upon the magnetite in them, and proves that the iron is the primary and the magnetite the secondary product.

Though agricultural professorships are not considered to have produced all the good that was once expected from them, there is one lately established by the French Government which might well be copied in other countries. It is a professorship of comparative agriculture at Vincennes, and its occupant will make a systematic comparison of home and foreign agriculture.

The character of the Yale lectures to mechanics is seen from the following titles to some of the lectures: "Forester and Forest Products," Prof. William H. Brewer; "Mosses," Prof. C. D. Eaton; "Our Red Sandstone," G. W. Hawes; "The Usury Laws," Prof. F. A. Walker; and "Sanitary Engineering," Prof. W. P. Trowbridge. The course contains thirteen lectures, and costs $1.

A French paper says that "an American company proposes to introduce fur seals from Alaska into Lake Superior! The temperature of the lake is considered to be sufficiently cold for the purpose, and the company hopes to obtain from Congress and the Canadian Parliament an act protecting the creatures from slaughter for twenty years, after which time it is supposed that they will be sufficiently acclimatized and numerous to form subjects of sport." As the fur seal is a marine animal and Lake Superior is a body of fresh water, the success of the experiment, and even the authenticity of the story, is at least doubtful!

M. Giffard, inventor of the steam injector which bears his name, has entered upon a line of invention of which Americans have been very fond. He is building a small steamer to ply, during the French Exposition, over the three miles of the Seine between Pont Royal and the Exhibition. The steamer will be thirty metres, or one hundred feet long and three and a half metres, or eleven feet eight inches broad, and is to make forty-five miles an hour! The length is to the beam, therefore, as 8½ to 1. It is singular that marine engineering has gained but little from these attempts to attain excessive speeds. The real advances have been obtained by small successive improvements.

Mr. Henri Van Laun is known in the world of letters by his admirable translation of Taine's "History of English Literature," and also by his not yet completed translation of Molière's works; the latter being not merely a translation, but a very thoroughly worked English edition of the great French dramatist. He now presents us with the first volume of an original critical work of great importance and interest9—nothing less than a history of French literature. Mr. Van Laun's work is not a mere critical appreciation of French writers, which of itself would be an undertaking of very considerable moment, and which would fill a place hitherto unoccupied in our critical literature. The present work is in fact a history of French thought, and even more; it is a history of the French people as exhibited in the writings of Frenchmen from the very earliest period. The author accepts the theory which has lately come into vogue among the more elaborate, if not the profounder critics, that the literature of an age is a manifestation of its spirit; that a nation, or rather a people, has a soul like an individual man, and that that soul is manifested and is to be read in the pages of its authors; that as it, the people, is developed, intellectually, morally, socially, and politically, from age to age, the changes through which it passes are reflected in its literature, and that there no less, perhaps even more, than in the record of its doings at home, abroad, in the family, in society, in commerce, in manufactures, in art, and on the field of battle, is to be found its true portraiture. Indeed, he begins his book with the assertion that "the history of a literature is the history of a people; if not this, it is worthless."

To this theory and its general acceptance we owe chiefly the very wide scope and the philosophical profundity of most modern critical writing of the higher kind. Critics are not content nowadays with taking up a poem, novel, essay, or history, and looking at it by itself as an individual and isolated work of art. They must look into the personal life of the writer; they must discover and estimate all the influences by which he was surrounded; and among these they give a very important place to the condition of the society in which he lived, the political and religious forces which were at work while he was studying, thinking, writing. Briefly, they regard him not as an isolated individual force, but as a manifestation, a result of many forces, as doing his work less by personal volition than as the unconscious agent or representative of the times in which he lived. Consequently a critical edition or appreciation of a great writer has come to be not a purely literary task, but an attempt to unfold the mental and moral condition of a people and a period. Compare, for example, Addison's criticism of the "Paradise Lost," to which in a great measure the general appreciation of that poem is due, with David Masson's "Life of Milton." The former can all be included in a thin duodecimo volume, and has been so printed; the latter, still unfinished, fills several ponderous octavo volumes. Addison concerns himself with the poem itself; Masson writes an elaborate history of Puritanism and of the English people during the development and completion of that religious, social, and political revolution which produced the Commonwealth in Old England and the Puritan emigration to America, with the formation of the religious commonwealths of New England. True, Addison did not undertake to do what Masson undertook, and allowance must be made for the avowed difference between the methods of the two writers. But still that very difference is the significant exponent of the critical spirit of the times in which they lived. The very fact that the Victorian critic has undertaken his tremendous task, which Addison or any man of his time would not have thought of, is significant of the change in critical manner to which we have referred.

That the new theory of the proper scope of criticism is well founded, cannot be entirely denied. Literature to a certain degree is a characteristic product of the age and of the people for which, if not by which, it is produced. And if Mr. Van Laun had confined himself to the affirmative part of his proposition, his position would have been less disputable than it became when he added his negative assertion. It is not quite true that the history of a literature is the history of a people; still further from the truth is it that literary history which is not the history of a people is worthless. It might be easily shown that some of the very greatest literary productions known to the world have very slight relations, or none at all, to the condition of the society in which they were written. What, for example, is there in Shakespeare's plays, or in Sir Walter Scott's poems and novels, which is a manifestation of the spirit of their time? Scott, Wordsworth, Byron, and Moore were strictly contemporaries. What could be more unlike than their poems in spirit or in substance? What one trait have they in common? The theory in question is an example of the tendency of men to over generalization of particular facts, and of a like tendency to over subtlety in critical philosophy.

The spirit of a people is, however, undeniably manifest in the writings of its best and most favored authors; and to trace the rise of that spirit and the gradual formation of a national or popular character is a legitimate and a very instructive part of the task of a critic who undertakes to present a full appreciation of a national literature.

Mr. Van Laun certainly begins at the beginning. He shows us what the French people are; how the French nation arose and gradually grew into an individual existence; and he thus imitates and emulates the distinguished French critic whose work he has translated. M. Taine is strong on the manifestation of Anglo-Saxonism in English literature, and even finds the results of English beef and beer, and of the very rain and fog of England, in the books of English writers.

Mr. Van Laun's theory of the origin of the French people is not a very clear one; not even in his own mind, it would seem. He starts with the assertion, in very positive terms, that the Iberians were the vanguard of the invading races who overwhelmed and swept before them the oldest known inhabitants of Western Europe—the Celts; and his language implies that the former were and the latter were not an Indo-European race; that the vanguard of the Indo-European invaders found the Celts in Europe and overcame them. But there is no doubt, we believe, that the Celts themselves were, or are, an Indo-European race, and that they are the oldest representatives of that race in Europe. Their position in the extreme west, even in the Highlands of Scotland and in Ireland, shows this. As to the Iberians, the name itself is rather vague as that of a people or a race; but as far as we know anything of the race which Mr. Van Laun seems to have in view, they were found in the west of Europe by the invading Celts. The Basques are regarded by philologists and ethnologists as the modern representatives of the "Iberians," if that name must be used—at any rate of the prehistoric inhabitants of Western Europe. Of this Mr. Van Laun himself seems to have an inkling, for he says "they were possibly themselves an indigenous European race driven back upon the Celts by the invading tribes which so persistently trod upon their heels." He finds a confirmation of this supposition in a curious etymological coincidence. In the Basque tongue atzean signifies "behind," and atzea "a foreigner." He accounts for this by supposing that the Iberian, pushed hard by the invaders, made common cause with the Celt, and that therefore the ever-encroaching Goth and Frank were "the people behind him." But if his "Iberians" were an indigenous European race, how could they be "driven back" upon the Celts unless the latter had gone through and through them, and so actually got before them, leaving the indigenous people between them—the Celts—and the succeeding Indo-European invaders? The fact is that Mr. Van Laun has begun so very far back that he is in deep water, rather out of his depth—out of any one's depth indeed. For as to the Basques, they are still an ethnological and philological puzzle. The balance of probabilities, however, seems to be in favor of their being the, or an, indigenous European race, not connected with the Aryan or Indo-European races, against whom they, a small remnant, have managed to hold their own, and preserve their individuality in language, law, and customs for more than two thousand years. The first element, the ground, so to speak, of the French nation, is, however, doubtless Celtic; and as to how much of an intermingling there may have been between them and the "Iberians," or the indigenous race represented by the Basques, we do not know. Judging by the very remarkable individuality of that strange people, their boldness, and their disposition to keep themselves to themselves, the probabilities of any very great intermingling between them and their conquerors are very small indeed.

Upon the Celts came the Greeks and the Romans. The former took no such hold of the country as the latter did; but yet there seems to be some reason for Mr. Van Laun's summary of the influence upon Gaul, (not yet France) of the two great nations of antiquity when he says: "Greece, the commercial nation, had charmed and penetrated her hosts by her poetry, her rhetoric, her arts; Rome, the military nation, remodelled her victims by her laws, her administration, her moral vigor." This is somewhat loosely expressed for a work of such literary pretensions as those of the book before us; but it suggests the truth. There was, however, in the end, to use a popular phrase, "no comparison" between the influence of the Greeks and that of the Romans upon Gaul. It was in letters as in society and in politics; the intellectual existence of Gaul, as well as her physical existence, was to be inextricably interwoven with that of her Roman conquerors. Gaul became Romanized; the language of the country, whatever it had been, was driven out, and Latin took its place. The people of the country became one of what are now known as the Latin races, chiefly because of their languages. French is little more than Latin first debased and then by culture reformed into a language having a character and laws of its own. The words which form the bulk of the French language may be traced, have been traced, down step by step from the original Latin forms; and it is found that changes from ancient Latin to modern French took place according to certain phonetic laws so absolute that, given a Latin word, philologists can tell surely under what form it must appear in French.

After the Romans came the Teutonic invaders; and of these the Franks so imposed themselves upon the country that they gave it their name, and Gaul became France. Charlemagne was neither Celtic nor Latin, but simply Karl the Great, a Teutonic monarch under whose sceptre all the Franks were united. The predominance of the Franks in Gaul for many generations had a modifying influence upon the people. The Celtic Gaul was a lively, spirited, vain, bold, but not a very steadily courageous man. The Teutonic was a quieter, steadier, more reserved, and more thoughtful man. He was a bigger man, too, and like big men, he took things more quietly; he had the steady courage which the dashing and gaily caparisoned Celt somewhat lacked. And yet it is remarkable that in the end the Celtic nature reasserted itself in France, although with some modification; and to-day the Frenchman is a Celt, as fond of talk, of fanciful poetry, of fine dress, and show, and dash, as his forefather was fifteen hundred years ago.

It was not until about the year 850 that the language of the people of France assumed a form distinctively French, according to the modern standard; and even then it was so rude and unformed that to a modern uneducated Frenchman it would be quite as strange and incomprehensible as Latin itself. From the very first the great distinction between the language of the north and that of the south seems to have existed. The langue d'oc and the langue d'oil contended for the mastery, which was finally won by the latter. This is remarkable, as the former was the softer and more cultivated tongue. The finest and the most of the very early poetry of France was written in the langue d'oc. To this literature and to the condition of the society in which it was produced Mr. Van Laun gives much attention, as might have been expected. This part of his book is interesting to students of literary history; but we must confess that the songs of the troubadours have to us very rarely any of the charms of poetry, and that we think that much of the admiration of them which has been expressed by literary antiquarians is fictitious. There is occasionally in these poems a touch of natural feeling; but generally they are cold and full of conceits. Form seems to have been more important in the poet's eyes than spirit; and instead of genuine fervor we have deliberate extravagance. The great epic poem of the French language—its greatest if not its only great poem—the "Chanson de Roland"—is written in the langue d'oil. Mr. Van Laun notices this poem of course, and gives a brief summary of its plot, or we might better say of its incidents; but we are surprised that he does not give it more attention. It is far more worthy of critical examination than the fantastic love poems of the troubadours.

In his account of feudal society and of the effect which its conditions had upon such literature as there was in that day, Mr. Van Laun could hardly pass over those tribunals so characteristic and so foreign to our modes of thought and feeling nowadays—the courts of love, of which the troubadours were, in a sort, the advocates. These courts were governed by a Code of Love, which had thirty-one statutes or ruling maxims. Of these maxims the most significant, and some of the most remarkable, are the following:

In the last quoted of these remarkable laws (which were the work of women and of a few men who wished to please women), it will be observed that no authority or countenance is given to the loving of two women by one man. Our author regards the effect of these courts and their code as on the whole beneficial. His judgment may be sound, monstrous as the code seems to us, recognizing and even sanctioning as it did relations of the sexes not formed according to civil laws; for, as he says, "it refined the inevitable evil, substituted an easy for an almost impracticable moral code, and being compelled to draw a new line between venial offences and coarse licentiousness, exacted a rigid obedience to those laws." There is also some force in his plea that the courts of love "rescued woman from what would have become a condition of intolerable degradation, elevated affection rather than passion into the place of honor, and encouraged devotion in the stronger sex, grace and propriety in the weaker." It is undoubtedly true that when society became more rigid in sexual morality, and the mediæval code of love disappeared, there remained the tenderness and courtesy for the fairer and weaker sex which that code had done so much to develop.

Mr. Van Laun's first volume brings us down only to the Renaissance. But at that period the characteristic trait of French literature developed itself strongly. That trait is satire; not the bloody scourge of Juvenal, but a light, caustic, reserved, and almost pleasant although malicious satire—malicious in the French sense of malice, which is not so strong a word as its English counterpart. The difference between the French spirit and the English is shown by the fact that with free thought in the English race came stubborn dissent; in the French, light-hearted satire. "Satire," as Mr. Van Laun justly says, "is at the root of the French character, an instinct among the descendants of the ancient Gauls, who loved to fight and to talk well." This satire broke out in the sixteenth century with a brightness and causticity which has ever since distinguished French literature. The leader was Marguerite, sister to Francis I., the well-known Queen of Navarre. Her "Heptameron" is a strange book for a woman, and not a bad woman, a lady, and a queen, to have written. In it "she vents her contemptuous scorn upon husbands, although [perhaps because] she was married; against monks, though she was an ardent devotee of religion; against lawyers and doctors, though she was a queen." But it is most happily added that "her shrewdest satire of all is unconsciously pointed against herself; for she stands revealed to us a very woman, the rivals for whose favor are God and the devil, and who affords to neither of these more than a short coquettish glance."

It was at this period that the present school of French literature had its beginning; the spirit then so strongly manifested, the tendency to clearness, brightness, and high finish of style which then appeared among French writers, have since that time been the signs and tokens of the French mind and hand in literature. All that goes before is rude or fantastic or pedantic; then French literature rises in its splendor; we can hardly say its grandeur. Mr. Van Laun's first volume is full of interest which, however, is rather historical than literary; in the succeeding part of his work we may look for criticism more acceptable to the general reader.

—We pass easily from this history of the earliest days of French literature to its very latest, and we may add, one of its most characteristic productions. Alphonse Daudet's novel, "Fromont Jeune et Risler Ainé," has suddenly attained one of those rare and brilliant successes which seem possible only in France. Within an incredibly short time sixty thousand copies of it were sold, and it was "crowned" by the French Academy; whatever that may mean, whether an actual crowning of either book or author, it certainly does imply the awarding of the highest honors by the most eminent literary tribunal in France. It has now been reproduced here in a translation which leaves nothing to be desired, whether as a transfusion of the French spirit of the book, or as an example of a fine English narrative style.10 Indeed, it unites these two most important requisites of a good translation in a rare and remarkable manner. As to the book itself, although it is a very good novel, and carries upon its face the evidence that it is a careful study of a certain phase of French life, we are at a loss to account for its phenomenal success. It is all about Sidonie, who may be called its heroine, as Becky Sharp is the heroine of "Vanity Fair." Now Sidonie is a pretty, vulgar, vile-souled shop girl who uses her beauty to make her way to a certain sort of bourgeois fashionable life, but who is really a far more infamous creature than many a common harlot. For she is not wanton; she is not merely venal; she is pitilessly selfish and fiendishly malicious. She has no honesty of any kind—of mind, heart, soul, or body. A baser, viler creature in female, and therefore in human form, it would be impossible to conceive. For to all grovelling, debasing vice she adds a monstrous, cold-hearted cruelty. With all this she is not remarkable for anything except a pretty, blooming face and a low cunning. What need to familiarize us with the life of such a creature? She ruins the happiness of two men, one of a noble soul and the other a weak-minded creature; she breaks up a family; she brings her principal victim to suicide; and all this not even for a grand passion, but that she may have fine dresses, diamonds, and a social success. This is very barren business. We do not care to have such a life as this laid before us with all the particularity of treatment which belongs to the realistic school. But granted that we did desire it, we must confess that we could not wish for it better done. The life-portraiture, inner as well as outer, is perfect and minute to admiration. The end is brought about in fine melodramatic style. Around Sidonie are grouped several personages lovable and unlovable, admirable and unadmirable, but all painted with perfect, clear conception and firm, minute touch. The distinctive Frenchness of the author is manifest in every page. It is shown particularly in the absence of any touch of humor in the portraiture of Sidonie. Unlike Becky Sharp, she hems no little shirt in public until a little Rawdon has long outgrown it. The hard portrait of her hard soul has no such softening touch as that. The book is of a bad sort; but of its sort most admirable.

The Lenten season is peculiarly the time for religious books, and the publishers have not failed to take advantage of it this year. Among the most interesting and valuable of the new works is Dr. Gregory's examination into the reason for having Four Gospels.11 Why there should be two, three, or any number more than one, or less than eleven, is a question that has been considered significant for many centuries. Why out of eleven faithful disciples, precisely four should be inspired to write the history of the founder of the Church is certainly a problem that must be worth examining. The first idea, and it is one that has not died out yet, was that the four Gospels were so many incomplete but supplementary narratives, and in the second century efforts were made to improve upon the Biblical record by the Harmonists, who tried to compile what they considered a consistent and progressive account of the acts of Christ's ministry. They were followed by the Allegorists, who took the vision of Ezekiel, with its likeness of a man, a lion, an ox, and an eagle, and applied it to the writers of the Gospels as an exemplification of the meaning each of the narratives was intended to have. Though they, and their modern followers also, have not been able to agree upon this symbolical purport, the four Evangelists have retained in art those symbolical figures. The lion and St. Mark, the eagle and St. John are indissolubly connected in ecclesiastical art and story. The other schools of interpretation are, according to Dr. Gregory, the rationalists and "the common-sense critics." His own answer to the question, Why Four Gospels? is, that Christ had a mission to the Jews, and Matthew presented that argument for his divinity which was best calculated to impress that people; and to the Romans, to whom Mark was an interpreter; and to the Greeks, to whom Luke spoke; and to the Church at large, for whom John wrote his gospel of gentleness and love. The Jew, the Roman, and the Greek then composed the world of civilization—the existing society of that day—and in the Bible we find one writer for each of these nations, and one for the whole Church. This is certainly a rational and unembarrassed explanation. Dr. Gregory enforces it with great force and learning.

Mr. Buchanan's "Shadow of the Sword"12 has so many faults that it is a wonder he could have written it to the end without arousing his own disgust. It revives the long-neglected horrors of the time of the first Napoleon, and deals with them in a way that is brutal, not artistic. Its hero is a deserter, and he is so sharply followed by the gendarmes that for a year or more he lives the life of a burrowing animal, until reason itself is unseated. The only relief to a picture which the author strives vigorously to make revolting is the love of the hero's betrothed; but that too is so mingled with terror that it only throws a more lurid light upon the sufferings her lover undergoes. The style is as close an imitation of the French as the author can produce, occasionally varied, however, most ludicrously by an unguarded exhibition of English slang. The heroine has those eyes so rarely seen outside of novels, of "that mystic color which can be soft as heaven with joy and love, but dark as death with jealousy and wrath." For those who get near enough to gaze long into them, they reveal "strange depths of passion, and self-control, and pride." The individual who did this gazing is a tall, lusty fellow, and healthy as the average of fisherman's boys, but for all that he has the soul of romance within him. When his comrades are lounging on the beach, he is "walking in some vast cathedral not made with hands," or performing daring feats of strength. Unluckily forsaking his cathedral, to lounge on the beach with his true love, like common mortals, they are caught by the tide, and have to wade through the water to escape. She bares her legs for the bath without hesitation or blush, for "she knew that they were pretty, of course, and she felt no shame." But there is one thing this young lady would not for worlds reveal, and that is her hair, which is invariably concealed beneath a coif. But as the waters deepen, Rohan throws the pretty-limbed creature over his shoulder and wades thigh deep. As he lands her he looks up, "and lo! he saw a sight which brought the bright blood to his own cheeks and made him tremble like a tree beneath his load." Her hair had fallen down, and the cheeks and neck that bore unmoved the exposure of her knees, were now "crimson with a delicious shame." This incident "bared each to each in all the nudity of passion," and it certainly bares the nudity of the author's invention. He is nowhere prurient, and nowhere delicate. He describes the revolting details of the story with as much unction as if they were the important things, and he leaves his hero at the end a complete failure in life and love, wasted in strength, and ruined in mind.

We are glad to see Dr. McClellan persist in his study of the cholera question.13 We know of no publications which are better fitted than his to awaken the people to a proper sense of the duty, and also of the efficiency, of personal providence against disease. He is an advocate of the Indian origin theory of the disease and its spread by personal infection only, and in this pamphlet maintains two propositions: 1st, that Asiatic cholera has never yet originated on the American continent, but in every instance has spread from a first case which reached its shores from some countries beyond the ocean; and 2d, that it is diffused by the migrations of individuals who are infected by the disease, a specific poison existing in their dejecta, which reproduces the disease in any person to whom it gains access. This is a theory of epidemic cholera which is rational, consistent with the constantly developing facts of scientific research, and which happily includes a remedy that is every way practicable and thorough. But it is a theory that is not yet acknowledged by all authorities. Telluric conditions, malaria, and other local influences are frequently pointed to as the cause of the disease, and the doctrine of specific cholera poison still demands strong partisan advocacy.

—An anonymous pamphlet on vivisection, which takes ground against that mode of obtaining knowledge, is not worth serious notice except for the odd argument that crime is likely to increase if the vivisectionists are allowed to experiment on cats and dogs, as the new English law proposes! Criminals, says the authoress, rarely have had pets, and therefore if we kill all the pets, and thus deprive ourselves of the refining influences of kitty and the ennobling example of doggy, we shall the more readily turn to criminal ways. Another powerful argument is that "the countries where vivisection has prevailed seem to have secured no lasting blessing, but to have been the subjects of peculiarly calamitous afflictions, direful disasters, unnatural internal tribulations, and other multiplied evils." This is theocracy with a vengeance.

For some years past the "North American Review" has been enriched by papers from the late Mr. Chauncey Wright on various subjects in the wide field of modern philosophy, but especially in the much disputed theories of biology. They exhibited such proofs of independent judgment and critical acumen as to give their author immediate standing among European as well as home savants. These critiques have been collected and published under the name "Philosophical Discussions."14 Much as we admired these articles when they first appeared, we do not see that a republication of them is needed unless as a graceful monument to an enthusiastic student. In their permanent form they lose the immediate fitness to questions under universal discussion, which is the true raison d'être of such papers. The extreme wordiness which was Mr. Wright's principal literary fault is disagreeably manifest when his book is laid by those of other masters in positive philosophy. This is especially noticeable in the only strictly original discussion in the book, the one on the arrangement of leaves in plants. In this paper the editor has left out the "strictly inductive investigation" which contains the kernel of the essay! He has omitted the soul and given the "limbs and outward flourishes" of the author's discussion, and much to the latter's discredit. Aside from this tendency to sentences and words of philosophical length, Mr. Wright's style is extremely agreeable, clear, and strong. It frequently shines with unexpected felicities of expression, just as the author's argument frequently awakens the perception with its unusual keenness and depth of thought.

"The Convicts,"15 by Auerbach, will not increase that author's reputation in America. It belongs to the distinctively romantic school of German fiction. The story is that two convicts, reformed through the agency of a charitable society, marry and bring up a large family of children. These suffer pangs of sorrow when they learn of the stain on their parents' name, but otherwise they do not appear to be inconvenienced by their unfortunate origin. They marry into stations very much above them, though in addition to the embarrassing criminal history of their parents, they suffer what in Germany is the hardly less disaster, of being the children of a railway signal man! We suppose the object of this plot, and of much special social sentiment which is introduced in the story, is to represent the increased importance which the industrial classes have in Germany, as elsewhere in the world. Here in America the improvement in the condition of the working-man does not excite attention except from professed students of political economy. But in Germany it is contrasted with a previous state of almost complete vassalage, and the poets there seem to think it indicates an approaching brotherhood of man. Wealth and worth are to embrace each other, and the sins of the father are not to descend even to the first generation of children. We cannot but sympathize with the Councillor of State (whose granddaughter wants to, and does, marry one of the convict flagman's sons, an artisan) when he says:

See! see! This then is the latest ideal? Formerly the ideals were painters, musicians, hussar riding masters, and players. Now love also is practical. So then an artisan? All the enthusiasm runs to tunnels and viaducts.

The book is marred by unnecessary exactitude in translation. Thouing and theeing make no impression of intimacy and confidence on the American understanding as they do on the German, and should be omitted. Nor has the author the strength of his youth, and the beauty of his fancy no longer atones for the weakness of the story. Nothing in the whole of the book proper is so good as the following from the preface:

Of late years there has been a tendency to abandon the exhaustive "manuals" which once formed the only style of school and hand-books known, and to use in their place books which contain only so much of a science as is taught in some one well-proportioned school. The change is based on the rational supposition that whatever suffices for the thorough instruction of students should also satisfy the wants of an ordinary practical worker. Mr. Ricketts's "Notes on Assaying"16 belong to this modern kind of text-book. They contain what the students in the School of Mines in New York learn, and as a thorough knowledge of assaying is obviously necessary to a mining engineer, the author considers that the same course if honestly worked through should suffice for practice outside the school. The book covers both dry and wet assaying, and gold parting, and there are chapters in which the apparatus and chemical reagents are described. A few condensed notes on blowpiping finish an extremely concise and useful book, always available for reference, and in which the self-taught workman may find his way without confusion.

—Under the pressure of incessant examinations for admission to and promotion in many fields of human activity, from the Government service to apprentices' workshops, English literature is receiving important accessions to its facilities for teaching science. All kinds of positive knowledge are condensed into class books, sometimes by the very master minds of scientific research, sometimes by experienced teachers. Of the latter kind is Mr. Lee's "Acoustics, Light and Heat,"17 which he has written to meet the wants of students for the Advanced Stage Examination of the British Department of Science and Art. Excellence in such a work requires that the main principles of the science should be sufficiently covered, explanations be clear, illustrations sufficient, and language as simple as possible. Mr. Lee's book appears to us somewhat over-condensed, but otherwise conforms to these requirements.

Lord Dufferin's "Letters from High Latitudes," describing the yacht voyage he made in 1856 to Iceland, Jan Mayen, and Spitzbergen, are so well known that it is only necessary to say they are republished by Lovell, Adam, Wesson & Co., a Canadian firm that has lately established itself in New York. In reading these familiar and gossipy letters, one is painfully impressed with a sense of the dreariness of the Northern regions. Whatever there is of interest is carried there by the traveller. The country itself, even including Iceland, adds little to the narrative, and sea life, whether stormy or calm, is not provocative of incident. But in spite of these inherent discouragements, the author maintains his cheerfulness throughout with such uniformity that we cannot resist a suspicion of its genuineness. He comes up to the inditing of each epistle with the determined smile of a much battered pugilist, when a new round is called—and we are very much in his debt for his pluck.

"U. S. Geological Survey of the Territories." F. V. Hayden. Vols. IX. and X., and Annual Report for 1875.

"The Jukes. A Study in Crime and Pauperism." E Harris, M.D. G. P. Putnam's Sons.

"Waverley Novels," Riverside Edition. Hurd & Houghton.
      "The Abbot." $1.50.
      "Kenilworth." $1.50.
      "Fortunes of Nigel." $1.50.
      "The Pirate." $1.50.

"Harriet Martineau's Autobiography." Two volumes. M. W. Chapman. J. R. Osgood & Co. $6.00

—We have not yet entered into rivalry with Mexico; and although to those who looked upon our politics during the last two months from the outside only, we have doubtless seemed to be tending toward anarchy, revolution, and pronunciamentos, we were really in no such danger. Teutonic blood and the English language (Anglo-Saxons and Germans are both Teutonic) seem to carry with them a certain steadiness and capacity of common-sense perception which are preventives of great political folly; and although it is not the habit of our politicians to speak very respectfully of each other from the opposite sides of a political canvass, and the conduct of our Representatives at Washington is not always quite so admirable and exemplary as it might be, we do not, in French phrase, "descend into the streets," or raise barricades, or fly at each other's throats unless we mean real revolutionary business. Even then we are apt to go decorously, if not solemnly, about our work, and talk about "the course of human events" and "a decent respect for the opinions of mankind"; we at least did so once, and notwithstanding the great changes that have taken place in our political and social condition, it may be safely assumed that we should do so again. Frothy talk at Washington gives occasion for leading articles which are not always less frothy, and for sensation headings that gladden the eyes of newsboys. The desperate political game played at Washington for the Presidency has had a very bad effect upon our reputation, and has increased the very political demoralization of which it was an outward sign; but it is safe to say that when the most furious politicians there talked revolution they did not "mean business." Both parties stood before the world in a not very admirable light. On the one hand, the Democrats digged a pit and fell into it themselves. The Electoral Commission was their own contrivance; and when they were moved to wrath and denunciation by the decisions against their case, they only showed that they formed the Commission in the supposed certainty that it would decide in their favor. They did not want a tribunal of arbitration, but a decision under the forms of arbitration. On the other hand, the Republicans appeared with changed front on the subject of State sovereignty. No assertion of the purely federative constitution of the Union could equal in force the decision that, fraud or no fraud, Congress should not go behind the electoral certificates of the Governors of the various States. Partisanship was equally binding on both sides. If then all the Republicans on the Commission always voted one way, with like "solidarity" all the Democrats always voted the other. To adopt a phrase attributed to the ex-Confederate General Jubal Early, the seven-spot couldn't take the eight. One result of the struggle, and of the revelations which it brought about, was the remarkable one of the destruction of the prestige of the candidate who came within one electoral vote of the Presidency. It is safe to say that if a new election had been brought about, the Democrats would not have ventured to go into it with Mr. Tilden in nomination.

—The struggle is over, and the uncertainty is past; and now, according to very general anticipations, business ought to revive and prosperity to return. We would gladly believe that such will be the result, but we doubt it. Business will revive, prosperity will return; for the country is rich, never more so, and is daily becoming richer. It is impossible to stop the onward course of a people who have our advantages; but the causes of our present depression lie too deep to be touched by the settlement of a mere party contest. We are suffering from the effects of a political, social, and moral revolution which has been in progress for nearly twenty years, and which the rest of the world has felt hardly less than ourselves. We have suffered the most because on the one hand our financial position is at any time less stable than that of other people, and on the other because we of all have undergone the greatest moral deterioration. We have been brought to that sad condition in which we are afraid to trust each other. So many of us have been playing the part of adventurers, so many have been playing a "confidence game," that confidence is gone in another sense than that in which it is so often said to be wanting. Prosperity will return to our business circles slowly and surely as our moral tone rises, and as business is conducted upon stable principles and upon an honorable basis. We must cease to "swap jackknives" in the shape of railway bonds and unimproved land; we must do more productive work and keep better faith. Hard work and honesty will do more for us than the settlement of the Presidential question, although that will probably do something.

—Thirty-five years ago Charles Dickens, having visited the legislative capital of a great nation, wrote thus about the men that he found there: "I saw in them the wheels that move the meanest perversion of virtuous political machinery that the worst tools ever wrought. Despicable trickery at elections, underhanded tamperings with public officers, cowardly attacks upon opponents with scurrilous newspapers for shields, and hired pens for daggers, shameful trucklings to mercenary knaves, whose claim to be considered is that every day and week they sow new crops of ruin with their venal types, which are like dragons' teeth of yore in everything but sharpness; aiding and abetting of every bad inclination in the popular mind, and artful suppressions of all its good influences—such things as these, and in a word, Dishonest Faction, in its most depraved and unblushing form, stared at me from every corner of the crowded hall." Of what country could he have thus written? Manifestly some "effete monarchy" in the most degraded stage of its decadence.

—The effort to establish carnivals in America is not a very encouraging sign of a healthy moral tone in the public mind. Surely there was never an attempt more superfluous, untimely, or out of place. Not only New York, but the whole country is swarming with thousands of people who are in need of money to buy shelter, food, and clothing; banks of discount, savings banks, trust companies, the very charitable institutions, are brought to ruin and disgrace by fraudulent bankruptcy; and this is the time that is chosen to entice people to playing the fool publicly in the open streets. If ever a Lent should have been kept in the sackcloth of humiliation and the ashes of despair, it is that which has just passed. People who would take part in a carnival now would dance upon the borders of their own open graves. And what do we want of a carnival, even if we were prosperous? Carnivals are not suited to our national traits. They suit the Latin races of the south of Europe; and even among them they are fading away before the light of diffused intelligence and the thoughtfulness that comes of knowledge. To us they are entirely foreign. They do not suit our sober, practical habits of life and thought; and if we attempted them, we should only make ourselves ridiculous by our awkwardness. Festivals of that kind require a volatile people, who at least can practise folly gracefully. We should unite folly with dulness and stupidity. Moreover, such festivals cannot be got up to order anywhere. They are results; they are the growth of centuries. Italians and Frenchmen do not say, Go to! we will have a carnival. The thing belongs to them by inheritance; the memories of it mingle with their earliest recollections. As for us, we might go through a carnival dolefully, as a penance fitting to Lent; but as to enjoying one, except as spectators, to us that is quite impossible. All such festivities are foreign to our nature. We cannot even keep up an interest in "Decoration Day." We revere the memories of our dead; but a ceremonial exhibition of our reverence sits ill upon us. We do not take kindly to public spectacles, and ourselves never appear well in them. As to the sober procession for which the municipal laws in New York compelled the projected masquerade to be changed, it will be, if it is at all, only a means of advertising. That sort of display we take to hugely. It was with difficulty that President Lincoln's obsequies were preserved against the projects of advertisers. We turn the mountains into posters and the hills into sign-posts. If we must do that, let us do it openly and plainly; but a carnival! Fudge!

—We cannot successfully imitate Europeans in their graceful follies; but in their soberer and more practical habits we might well follow their example. A step has been just taken in Germany which is more needed here, and which yet there is hardly any hope that we shall profit by. The union of German apothecaries has addressed a petition to the Federal Council demanding that the secret medicines concocted and advertised by quacks shall be officially tested before they are permitted to be sold. A more creditable and needful step was never taken, or one which was more indicative of enlightenment and high civilization. Quack medicines are on the whole a curse to mankind. They are generally imposed upon the ignorant and credulous by men who care not what harm they do so long as they profit by their business. Many of these medicines—so called—are very injurious, and a still greater proportion of them are entirely useless. The very fact that their composition is kept secret is against them. It is a law absolute among all honorable physicians that no remedial agent shall be kept secret. Such physicians, if in their practice they discover a remedy for any disease, at once make it known to the whole profession. To keep such a discovery secret would be to lose caste, if not to be entirely excluded from honorable professional association and recognition. If such an examination as that proposed in Germany is needed there, here it is required by a tenfold greater necessity. America is the great field of operation for the patent medicine vender. Here he thrives. Here he accumulates huge fortunes if he will only advertise persistently and with sufficient disregard of truth. And his chief victims are women and children. He is one of the pests of our society. We cannot exclude him, or extinguish him entirely; that would interfere with the individual liberty of the citizen; not only of the seller, but of the buyer. If people choose to poison themselves gradually, they insist upon their right to do so unhindered by government action. But at least we might do what the German apothecaries ask to have done, and require as a condition of the granting of a patent for a medicine that it should be tested and its contents officially declared. The effect of such a measure upon the general health would be in the highest degree beneficial; and at least the public would be protected against the fraudulent representations of the majority of patent medicine makers and venders.

—In another matter, church chimes, we have imitated Europe, and not discreetly, and we have had our first check. A certain chime of church bells in Philadelphia became annoying to the people in the neighborhood, who complained to the courts, and obtained an injunction restricting the use of the chimes to certain times of day. Even were this often bell-jangling not the annoyance that it is, the whole American public would owe something to these good Philadelphians simply for the good example of their action in this matter. They were annoyed by some one, the agent of a corporation, who, although he did not commit murder, burglary, or arson, interfered with their comfort and marred their enjoyment of life; and they, like sensible men, instead of putting up with the annoyance after the American fashion, and saying, "Oh, no matter! What can we do to stop it? Let it go!" set themselves to work to see if they couldn't stop it. They tested the question whether a certain number of men might please their taste or their religious fancy at the risk of disturbing and annoying others; and they succeeded. It is to be hoped that the lesson will not be lost in regard not only to the specific annoyance which was the cause of complaint, but all other selfish indulgences by which some men interfere with the rights of others. The law of common sense and justice in such matters is that every man may enjoy himself as he pleases so long as he does not interfere with the enjoyment of their natural rights by others. A man may give his days and nights to ringing chimes so long as they are not heard outside of his own house; but if they are so heard, and they deprive a single person of rest, or even of a quiet enjoyment of life, he has passed the limit of right. A dozen men may like a strong perfume; but they have no right to load the common air with it to the annoyance even of a thirteenth. This matter of ringing church chimes has become somewhat of a religious and sentimental affectation. Chimes have a very pretty effect in literature; and at a distance in the country they are charming. But when they clang daily in the tower of a city church within a few hundred yards of you, they become a great nuisance. Nor is the annoyance they give diminished when the chimer, instead of ringing such changes as are suited to bells, will insist upon playing affettuoso. In fact, all church bells are an annoyance in cities, and a needless one. They were first used to call people to church when there were no clocks, and before watches were heard of. Now, when the humblest apartment has a clock that strikes the hour, "the church-going bell" is entirely superfluous for the object for which it is rung, and is really a great annoyance not only to the sick, but to those who are in health. It is a noisy anachronism which clamors with iron tongue and brazen throat for its own suppression.

—And so at last the marriage of Adelina Patti to the Marquis of Caux has come to its natural end. What could the Marquis or the lady expect? He married her for the money that she earned, and that he might own so charming a celebrity; she accepted him as a husband for his title. Years have passed, and nothing has occurred to bind them more closely. The lady has no children, or any prospect of one; and so there is nothing in the way of a judicial separation on account of incompatibility. It is not necessary to suppose that the distinguished prima donna has actually run away from her husband with a lover; but it would only be natural if there were a man in the distance more to her taste. It is remarkable, by the way, that so great an interest should be taken by Americans in the fortunes of this lady, who, since she has developed her extraordinary talent, has turned her back entirely on this country. She is spoken of here often as an American prima donna. This can only be the result of a very great and an absurd misapprehension. Adelina Patti is an Italian. Her father and mother were both Italians, who could speak hardly a word of English. Her education and habits of life have been entirely Italian. Even if she had been born here by the chance of a professional residence here by her mother, that would not have made her anything else than Italian, more than a like chance residence in Russia or in Turkey would have made her a Russian or a Turk, or than the Irishman's being born in a stable would have made him a horse. When a family emigrates and resides permanently in another country, assuming the life and the habits of that country, and intermarrying there, it changes its nationality, but not otherwise. The eagerness which many Americans show to claim as American everything meritorious in art over whose supposed origin the Stars and Stripes may have been thrown, is a witness to our real native poverty in that respect, which we reveal by the very means by which we would conceal it. And besides all this, Adelina Patti was not even born in this country. She came here from Europe a little girl, with her mother, Katarina Barili-Patti, a prima donna, who, although she had not her daughter's facility of execution and range of voice, sang in the grand style, and who, as a dramatic vocalist, was far beyond la diva, as Adelina is absurdly called. As to her parting company with M. Caux, nothing is more probable than that the restraint—at least external—which belongs to the life of a marquise became too intolerable to her inborn Bohemianism, and that she seeks deliverance not only from an unloved and unloving husband, but from the galling restraints of dull respectability.

—There is a club in London, the Albemarle, which admits both men and women as members, and which the wags have therefore nicknamed the Middlesex club. An English gentleman being urged to join this club on the ground that he could take his wife there, plumply refused on that very ground, saying that the chief good in a club consisted in its being a refuge for married men. Whereupon the average woman exclaims, "The brute! What did he marry for if he wanted to be rid of his wife?" A view of the case not unnatural perhaps in a woman, but most unwise. Passing by the not very remote possibility that there are women (as there are men) who in the matrimonial lottery could not be regarded as prizes, there are strong reasons for the exclusion of women, even the most charming, from clubs. For women a man may see at home daily or in society. It is in those places that he expects to find them; there they naturally belong; there they are attractive. But when he sets up a club it is for the very purpose of enjoying man companionship and indulging his mannish tastes. He wishes there to be entirely at his ease, and not to be called on for "little attentions." He wears his hat in the club-house if he likes, and he does not wish to be called upon to take it off unless he likes. In short, he wishes there to be free, for a time, from the restraints which the presence of ladies puts upon the conduct and conversation of men, even of those who neither in act nor in speech pass the bounds of reasonable decorum. Women in clubs are pretty annoyances, fine things very much out of place. Moreover, it is true, although by most women, particularly married women, it will not be believed, that clubs, by their exclusion of women, make the society of the sex more pleasant to the average man, and tend to keep warm the marital love of the average husband. Woman, whether to her credit or not we shall not undertake to decide, can bear the continued companionship of a favored man much better than man can bear that of a woman, no matter how beautiful, how charming, or how much beloved. But even women are happier for the inevitable separation from them of their husbands every day and during a greater part of the day. As to men, unfortunately many of them would begin to weary of a woman, and at last to dislike her, if they were compelled to pass every evening in her company. Here the club steps in (we are not speaking of the mere "club man"), and interposes its conservative influence. Many a man's love is kept fresh by his having his club for a refuge; and many a love which has cooled almost to indifference has been prevented from turning into aversion by the soothing influences of that refuge. For the leisurely classes of men clubs are a benign invention; and women should in their own interests avoid giving them anything of a "middlesex" character.

—While we write a new grand scandal is impending of the Beecher-Tilton kind, which will attract less attention than that did because the parties to it are less widely known. But as the principal person is a late minister of Trinity Church in New York, and now the head, of the far-famed charitable association known as "St. John's Guild," and as the principal witness and complainant is this gentleman's wife, who is the daughter of a late rector of Trinity, and as she has already, before the investigation is begun, shown an inclination to have no connubial reserves with the public, the affair promises to be what the journalists call a rich case. It certainly is a very deplorable one, however it may result to the persons principally interested. It is much to be regretted that the investigation has been announced with such a flourish of trumpets, calling in the wife, who declares herself so much injured, inviting the press, and announcing that the investigation will be held with open doors; and this after a publication almost in minute detail of all the charges brought against the Reverend defendant—at whose own request, by the way, the investigation is set on foot. Investigations like these must needs sometimes take place; but everything should be done to confine a knowledge of them to those who are called upon to take part in them, either as parties, as referees, or as advocates. On the contrary, everything is done to make them as public and as injurious and offensive as possible. In this the press is chiefly culpable. Nothing is gained for justice by such public exhibitions, and much is lost to decency.

1Total polls of Boston, 85,243. Four-ninths of these will go into $15,114,389—total expenditure of the year 1875-6—$399 times.

3Mr. Jennings, late editor of the New York "Times," now London correspondent of the "World," in a recent letter describing the opening of Parliament by the Queen in person, on which occasion the House of Lords was filled with peers and peeresses, writes thus with regard to the beauty of the women and the presence and figures of the men:

"On this occasion the ladies overflowed the House. Early as it still was, the floor was covered with them—large blocks of the benches were occupied, and the galleries were crowded. All these ladies were in evening toilets, the peeresses wearing coronets of diamonds—most of them being fairly ablaze with diamonds on head and neck. If the daylight was not very favorable to the shoulders or complexions of some of these noble dames, the gorgeousness of their costumes and the glitter of their precious stones served to divert attention from the defects of nature or the ravages of time.... Not many of these ladies in the House were very pretty, although here and there was a face such as makes one stop short and hold one's breath, and wonder at the divine perfection of nature's handiwork when she is at her best.... As for the old bald-headed gentlemen, some of them very short and stumpy, they looked painfully like a collection of 'senators' in some opera bouffe. One of them in particular, with four ermine bars on his cloak, denoting his high rank, was exactly like the funny-looking dummy Englishman which the French delight to exhibit in their farces. He had very little hair left to boast of, and that little was very red, and his face was round and red also, and he was altogether so comic a little man that one could not look at him without a smile. I could not find out who he was till the royal procession entered, when he suddenly reappeared in great pomp and state, standing on the throne by the side of her Majesty's chair and carrying the 'Cap of Maintenance.' Then I knew that he was the Marquis of Winchester—fourteenth of that ilk—John Paulet by name, and the Premier Marquis of England. So much for appearances."

Mr. Jennings, it should be remembered, is an Englishman; but he lived eight or ten years in New York; and I may be pardoned for saying that he carried away a constant reminder of "American" beauty, and a standard of comparison which would be likely to make him fastidious.

5 Mê nyn en êthos mounon en sautô phorei,
Hôs phês sy, kouden allo, tout' orthôs echein.

—Antigone.

7This is somewhat in excess of the actual amount, which is, however, quite large enough, $3,809,722,765; viz., customs, $1,973,589,621; internal revenue, $1,826,185,813; direct tax, $9,947,331. It is well to remember, too, that the expenditures of the Government have decreased one-half in this period; viz., from $520,809,417, in 1866, to $258,469,797 in 1876. Of this decrease, thirty-three millions is in the interest on the public debt.—Ed. Galaxy.

8Not only that government is tyrannical which is tyrannically administered, but all governments are tyrannical which have not in their constitution a sufficient security against arbitrary power.—Burgh's Pol. Disquis., 378.

9"History of French Literature." By Henri Van Laun. I. From its Origin to the Renaissance. 8vo, pp. 342. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

10"Sidonie." From the French of Alphonse Daudet. 16mo, pp. 262. Boston: Estes & Lauriat.

11"Why Four Gospels? or, The Gospel for all the World." By D. S. Gregory, D.D. New York: Sheldon & Co.

12"The Shadow of the Sword." A Romance. By Robert Buchanan. New York: Lovell, Adam, Wesson & Co.

13"Lessons to be Learned from the Cholera Facts of the Past Year." By Ely McClellan, M.D., Surgeon U.S.A. Reprinted from the "Richmond and Louisville Medical Journal."

14"Philosophical Discussions." By Chauncey Wright. With a Biographical Sketch of the Author by Charles Eliot Norton. New York: Henry Holt & Co.

15"The Convicts and their Children." By Berthold Auerbach. Translated by Charles T. Brooks. Leisure Hour Series. New York: H. Holt & Co.

16"Notes on Assaying and Assay Schemes." By Pierre de Peyster Ricketts, E.M. New York: The Art Printing Establishment.

17"Acoustics, Light and Heat." By William Lees, M.A. With 200 illustrations. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

The whole population of Massachusetts in 1870 was		1,457,351
Of these were born in foreign lands	353,319
Born of foreign parents in Massachusetts	626,211	979,530

I.	The subject of a play should be capable of full treatment in fifteen scenes at most.
II.	It should be acted without the aid of narrative.
III.	It should have a connected plot, one event depending on the other.
IV.	The interest should hinge on a single action or episode.
V.	Furniture and set-pieces should be kept out of front scenes if possible.
VI.	The best dialogue should be put in front scenes.
VII.	They should end in suspense to be relieved by the full scenes.
VIII.	Fine points should be avoided in opening a play.
IX.	Act I. should open with a quiet picture, to be disturbed by the bad element, the other characters successively coming in, the excitement increasing.
X.	Act I. should end in a partial climax of suspense.
XI.	Each act should lead to the other, the interest increasing.
XII.	The interest should be concentrated on few characters.

	Tons.
Importation	4,685
Sales of Government old lead	1,050
Missouri	17,165
Galena district	6,425
Utah, Nevada, California	33,630
	62,955

THE GALAXY.

VOL. XXIII.—APRIL, 1877.—No. 4.

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