LIBRARY OF THE

WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE

ANCIENT AND MODERN

CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER

EDITOR

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIELUCIA GILBERT RUNKLEGEORGE HENRY WARNER

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Connoisseur Edition

VOL. VI. 

THE ADVISORY COUNCIL

 * * * * *

CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M. , LL. D. , Professor of Hebrew, HARVARD UNIVERSITY, Cambridge, Mass. 

THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D. , L. H. D. , Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of YALE UNIVERSITY, New Haven, Conn. 

WILLIAM M. SLOANE, PH. D. , L. H. D. , Professor of History and Political Science, PRINCETON UNIVERSITY, Princeton, N. J. 

BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M. , LL. B. , Professor of Literature, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY, New York City. 

JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D. , President of the UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN, Ann Arbor, Mich. 

WILLARD FISKE, A. M. , PH. D. , Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages and Literatures, CORNELL UNIVERSITY, Ithaca, N. Y. 

EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M. , LL. D. , Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, Berkeley, Cal. 

ALCÉE FORTIER, LIT. D. , Professor of the Romance Languages, TULANE UNIVERSITY, New Orleans, La. 

WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A. , Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of English and History, UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTH, Sewanee, Tenn. 

PAUL SHOREY, PH. D. , Professor of Greek and Latin Literature, UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, Chicago, Ill. 

WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D. , United States Commissioner of Education, BUREAU OF EDUCATION, Washington, D. C. 

MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M. , LL. D. , Professor of Literature in the CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY OF AMERICA, Washington, D. C. 

TABLE OF CONTENTS

VOL. VI

 LIVED PAGE

THE ABBÉ DE BRANTÔME (Pierre de Bourdeille) 1527-1614 2319 The Dancing of Royalty ('Lives of Notable Women') The Shadow of a Tomb ('Lives of Courtly Women') M. Le Constable Anne de Montmorency ('Lives of Distinguished Men and Great Captains') Two Famous Entertainments ('Lives of Courtly Women')

FREDRIKA BREMER 1801-1865 2328 A Home-Coming ('The Neighbors') The Landed Proprietor ('The Home') A Family Picture (same)

CLEMENS BRENTANO 1778-1842 2343 The Nurse's Watch The Castle in Austria

ELISABETH BRENTANO (Bettina von Arnim) 1785-1859 2348 Dedication: To Goethe ('Goethe's Correspondence with a Child') Letter to Goethe Bettina's Last Meeting with Goethe (Letter to Her Niece) In Goethe's Garden

JOHN BRIGHT 1811-1889 2354 From Speech on the Corn Laws (1843) From Speech on Incendiarism in Ireland (1844) From Speech on Non-Recognition of the Southern Confederacy (1861) From Speech on the State of Ireland (1866) From Speech on the Irish Established Church (1868)

BRILLAT-SAVARIN 1755-1826 2365

 From 'Physiology of Taste': The Privations; On the Love of Good Living; On People Fond of Good Living

CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ AND HER SISTERS 1816-1855 2381 Jane Eyre's Wedding-Day ('Jane Eyre') Madame Beck ('Villette') A Yorkshire Landscape ('Shirley') The End of Heathcliff (Emily Bronté's 'Wuthering Heights')

PHILLIPS BROOKS 1835-1893 2417 O Little Town of Bethlehem Personal Character ('Essays and Addresses') The Courage of Opinions (same) Literature and Life (same)

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 1771-1810 2425 Wieland's Statement ('Wieland')

JOHN BROWN 1810-1882 2437 Marjorie Fleming ('Spare Hours') Death of Thackeray (same)

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE (Artemus Ward) 1834-1867 2461 BY CHARLES F. JOHNSON Edwin Forrest as Othello High-Handed Outrage at Utica Affairs Round the Village Green Mr. Pepper ('Artemus Ward: His Travels') Horace Greeley's Ride to Placerville (same)

SIR THOMAS BROWNE 1605-1682 2473 BY FRANCIS BACON From the 'Religio Medici' From 'Christian Morals' From 'Hydriotaphia, or Urn-Burial' From 'A Fragment on Mummies' From 'A Letter to a Friend' Some Relations Whose Truth We Fear ('Pseudoxia Epidemica')

WILLIAM BROWNE 1591-1643 2511 Circe's Charm ('Inner Temple Masque') The Hunted Squirrel ('Britannia's Pastorals') As Careful Merchants Do Expecting Stand (same) Song of the Sirens ('Inner Temple Masque') An Epistle on Parting Sonnets to Cælia

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL 1820-1872 2519 Annus Memorabilis Words for the 'Hallelujah Chorus' Coming Psychaura Suspiria Noctis

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 1809-1861 2523 A Musical Instrument My Heart and I From 'Catarina to Camoens' The Sleep The Cry of the Children Mother and Poet A Court Lady The Prospect De Profundis The Cry of the Human Romance of the Swan's Nest The Best Thing in the World Sonnets from the Portuguese A False Step A Child's Thought of God Cheerfulness Taught by Reason

ROBERT BROWNING 1812-1889 2557 BY E. L. BURLINGAME Andrea del Sarto A Toccata of Galuppi's Confessions Love among the Ruins A Grammarian's Funeral My Last Duchess Up at a Villa--Down in the City In Three Days In a Year Evelyn Hope Prospice The Patriot One Word More

ORESTES AUGUSTUS BROWNSON 1803-1876 2594 Saint-Simonism ('The Convert')

FERDINAND BRUNETIÈRE 1849- 2603 BY ADOLPHE COHN Taine and Prince Napoleon The Literatures of France, England, and Germany

GIORDANO BRUNO 1548-1600 2613 A Discourse of Poets ('The Heroic Enthusiasts') Canticle of the Shining Ones: A Tribute to English Women ('The Nolan') Song of the Nine Singers Of Immensity Life Well Lost Parnassus Within Compensation Life for Song

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1794-1878 2623 BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP Thanatopsis The Crowded Street Death of the Flowers The Conqueror's Grave The Battle-Field To a Water-fowl Robert of Lincoln June To the Fringed Gentian The Future Life To the Past

JAMES BRYCE 1838- 2643 Position of Women in the United States ('The American Commonwealth') Ascent of Ararat ('Trans-Caucasia and Ararat') The Work of the Roman Empire ('The Holy Roman Empire')

FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND 1826-1880 2661 A Hunt in a Horse-Pond ('Curiosities of Natural History') On Rats (same) Snakes and their Poison (same) My Monkey Jacko (same)

HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE 1821-1862 2673 Moral versus Intellectual Principles in Human Progress ('History of Civilization in England') Mythical Origin of History (same)

GEORGE LOUIS LE CLERC BUFFON 1707-1788 2689 BY SPENCER TROTTER Nature ('Natural History') The Humming-Bird (same)

EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON 1803-1873 2697 BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE The Amphitheatre ('The Last Days of Pompeii') Kenelm and Lily ('Kenelm Chillingly')

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

VOLUME VI

 PAGE

"Les Satyres" (Colored Plate) FrontispieceCharlotte Bronté (Portrait) 2382Phillips Brooks (Portrait) 2418"The Holy Child of Bethlehem" (Photogravure) 2420"Circe" (Photogravure) 2514Robert Browning (Portrait) 2558William Cullen Bryant (Portrait) 2624Edward Bulwer-Lytton (Portrait) 2698"In the Arena" (Photogravure) 2718"Nydia" (Photogravure) 2720

VIGNETTE PORTRAITS

Abbé de BrantômeFredrika BremerElisabeth BrentanoJohn BrightBrillat-SavarinCharles Brockden BrownJohn BrownCharles Farrar BrowneSir Thomas BrowneElizabeth Barrett BrowningOrestes Augustus BrownsonFerdinand BrunetièreJames BryceGeorge Louis le Clere Buffon

THE ABBÉ DE BRANTÔME

(PIERRE DE BOURDEILLE)

(1527-1614)

Every historian of the Valois period is indebted to Brantôme forpreserving the atmosphere and detail of the brilliant life in which hemoved as a dashing courtier, a military adventurer, and a gallantgentleman of high degree. He was not a professional scribe, nor astudent; but he took notes unconsciously, and in the evening of his lifeturned back the pages of his memory to record the scenes through whichhe had passed and the characters which he had known. He has been termedthe "valet de chambre" of history; nevertheless the anecdotes scatteredthrough his works will ever be treasured by all students and historiansof that age of luxury and magnificence, art and beauty, beneath whichlay the fermentation of great religious and political movements, culminating in the struggle between the Huguenots and Catholics. 

[Illustration: ABBÉ DE BRANTÔME]

Brantôme was the third son of the Vicomte de Bourdeille, a Périgordnobleman, whose family had lived long in Guienne, and whose aristocraticlineage was lost in myth. Upon the estate stood the Abbey of Brantôme, founded by Charlemagne, and this Henry II. Gave to young Pierre deBourdeille in recognition of the military deeds of his brother, Jean deBourdeille, who lost his life in service. Thereafter the lad was to signhis name as the Reverend Father in God, Messire Pierre de Bourdeille, Abbé de Brantôme. Born in the old château in 1527, he was destined forthe church, but abandoned this career for arms. At an early age he wassent to court as page to Marguerite, sister of Francis I. And Queen ofNavarre; after her death in 1549, he went to Paris to study at theUniversity. His title of Abbé being merely honorary, he served in thearmy under François de Guise, Duke of Lorraine, and became Gentleman ofthe Chamber to Charles IX. His career extended through the reigns ofHenry II. , Francis II. , Charles IX. , Henry III. , and Henry IV. , to thatof Louis XIII. With the exception of diplomatic missions, service onthe battle-field, and voyages for pleasure, he spent his life at court. 

About 1594 he retired to his estate, where until his death on July 15th, 1614, he passed his days in contentions with the monks of Brantôme, inlawsuits with his neighbors, and in writing his books: 'Lives of theIllustrious Men and Great Captains of France'; 'Lives of IllustriousLadies'; 'Lives of Women of Gallantry'; 'Memoirs, containing anecdotesconnected with the Court of France'; 'Spanish Rodomontades'; a 'Life' ofhis father, François de Bourdeille; a 'Funeral Oration' on his sisterin-law; and a dialogue in verse, entitled 'The Tomb of Madame deBourdeille. ' These were not published until long after his death, firstappearing in Leyden about 1665, at the Hague in 1740, and in Paris in1787. The best editions are by Fourcault (7 vols. , Paris, 1822); byLacour and Mérimée (3 vols. , 1859); and Lalande (10 vols. , 1865-'81). 

What Brantôme thought of himself may be seen by glancing at that portionof the "testament mystique" which relates to his writings:--

 "I will and expressly charge my heirs that they cause to be printed the books which I have composed by my talent and invention. These books will be found covered with velvet, either black, green or blue, and one larger volume, which is that of the Rodomontades, covered with velvet, gilt outside and curiously bound. All have been carefully corrected. There will be found in these books excellent things, such as stories, histories, discourses, and witty sayings, which I flatter myself the world will not disdain to read when once it has had a sight of them. I direct that a sum of money be taken from my estate sufficient to pay for the printing thereof, which certainly cannot be much; for I have known many printers who would have given money rather than charged any for the right of printing them. They print many things without charge which are not at all equal to mine. I will also that the said impression shall be in large type, in order to make the better appearance, and that they should appear with the Royal Privilege, which the King will readily grant. Also care must be taken that the printers do not put on the title-page any supposititious name instead of mine. Otherwise, I should be defrauded of the glory which is my due. "

The old man delighted in complimenting himself and talking about his"grandeur d'âme. " This greatness of soul may be measured from thecommand he gave his heirs to annoy a man who had refused to swear homageto him, "it not being reasonable to leave at rest this little wretch, who descends from a low family, and whose grandfather was nothing but anotary. " He also commands his nieces and nephews to take the samevengeance upon his enemies "as I should have done in my green andvigorous youth, during which I may boast, and I thank God for it, that Inever received an injury without being revenged on the author of it. "

Brantôme writes like a "gentleman of the sword, " with dash and _élan_, and as one, to use his own words, who has been "toujours trottant, traversant, et vagabondant le monde" (always trotting, traversing, andtramping the world). Not in the habit of a vagabond, however, for theballs, banquets, tournaments, masques, ballets, and wedding-feasts whichhe describes so vividly were occasions for the display of sumptuouscostumes; and Messire Pierre de Bourdeille doubtless appeared as elegantas any other gallant in silken hose, jeweled doublet, flowing cape, andlong rapier. What we value most are his paintings of these festivescenes, and the vivid portraits which he has left of the Valois women, who were largely responsible for the luxuries and the crimes of theperiod: women who could step without a tremor from a court-masque to amassacre; who could toy with a gallant's ribbons and direct the blow ofan assassin; and who could poison a rival with a delicately perfumedgift. Such a court Brantôme calls the "true paradise of the world, school of all honesty and virtue, ornament of France. " We like to hearabout Catherine de' Medici riding with her famous "squadron of Venus":"You should have seen forty or fifty dames and demoiselles followingher, mounted on beautifully accoutred hackneys, their hats adorned withfeathers which increased their charm, so well did the flying plumesrepresent the demand for love or war. Virgil, who undertook to describethe fine apparel of Queen Dido when she went out hunting, has by nomeans equaled that of our Queen and her ladies. "

Charming, too, are such descriptions as "the most beautiful ballet thatever was, composed of sixteen of the fairest and best-trained dames anddemoiselles, who appeared in a silvered rock where they were seated inniches, shut in on every side. The sixteen ladies represented thesixteen provinces of France. After having made the round of the hall forparade as in a camp, they all descended, and ranging themselves in theform of a little oddly contrived battalion, some thirty violins began avery pleasant warlike air, to which they danced their ballet. " After anhour the ladies presented the King, the Queen-Mother, and others withgolden plaques, on which were engraved "the fruits and singularities ofeach province, " the wheat of Champagne, the vines of Burgundy, thelemons and oranges of Provence, etc. He shows us Catherine de' Medici, the elegant, cunning Florentine; her beautiful daughters, Elizabeth ofSpain and Marguerite de Valois; Diana of Poitiers, the woman of eternalyouth and beauty; Jeanne d'Albret, the mother of Henry IV. ; Louise deVaudemont; the Duchesse d'Étampes; Marie Touchet; and all theirsatellites, --as they enjoyed their lives. 

Very valuable are the data regarding Mary Stuart's departure from Francein 1561. Brantôme was one of her suite, and describes her grief whenthe shores of France faded away, and her arrival in Scotland, where onthe first night she was serenaded by Psalm-tunes with a most villainousaccompaniment of Scotch music. "Hé! quelle musique!" he exclaims, "etquel repos pour la nuit!"

But of all the gay ladies Brantôme loves to dwell upon, his favoritesare the two Marguerites: Marguerite of Angoulême, Queen of Navarre, thesister of Francis I. , and Marguerite, daughter of Catherine de' Mediciand wife of Henry IV. Of the latter, called familiarly "La ReineMargot, " he is always writing. "To speak of the beauty of this rareprincess, " he says, "I think that all that are, or will be, or have everbeen near her are ugly. "

Brantôme has been a puzzle to many critics, who cannot explain his"contradictions. " He had none. He extolled wicked and immoral charactersbecause he recognized only two merits, --aristocratic birth and hatred ofthe Huguenots. He is well described by M. De Barante, whosays:--"Brantôme expresses the entire character of his country and ofhis profession. Careless of the difference between good and evil; acourtier who has no idea that anything can be blameworthy in the great, but who sees and narrates their vices and their crimes all the morefrankly in that he is not very sure whether what he tells be good orbad; as indifferent to the honor of women as he is to the morality ofmen; relating scandalous things with no consciousness that they aresuch, and almost leading his reader into accepting them as the simplestthings in the world, so little importance does he attach to them;terming Louis XI. , who poisoned his brother, the _good_ King Louis, calling women whose adventures could hardly have been written by any pensave his own, _honnêtes dames_. "

Brantôme must therefore not be regarded as a chronicler who revels inscandals, although his pages reek with them; but as the true mirror ofthe Valois court and the Valois period. 

 * * * * *

THE DANCING OF ROYALTY

From 'Lives of Notable Women'

Ah! how the times have changed since I saw them together in theball-room, expressing the very spirit of the dance! The King alwaysopened the grand ball by leading out his sister, and each equaled theother in majesty and grace. I have often seen them dancing the Pavaned'Espagne, which must be performed with the utmost majesty and grace. The eyes of the entire court were riveted upon them, ravished by thislovely scene; for the measures were so well danced, the steps sointelligently placed, the sudden pauses timed so accurately and makingso elegant an effect, that one did not know what to admire most, --thebeautiful manner of moving, or the majesty of the halts, now expressingexcessive gayety, now a beautiful and haughty disdain. Who could dancewith such elegance and grace as the royal brother and sister? None, Ibelieve; and I have watched the King dancing with the Queen of Spain andthe Queen of Scotland, each of whom was an excellent dancer. 

I have seen them dance the 'Pazzemezzo d'Italie, ' walking gravelythrough the measures, and directing their steps with so graceful andsolemn a manner that no other prince nor lady could approach them indignity. This Queen took great pleasure in performing these gravedances; for she preferred to exhibit dignified grace rather than toexpress the gayety of the Branle, the Volta, and the Courante. Althoughshe acquired them quickly, she did not think them worthy of her majesty. 

I always enjoyed seeing her dance the Branle de la Torche, or duFlambeau. Once, returning from the nuptials of the daughter of the Kingof Poland, I saw her dance this kind of a Branle at Lyons before theassembled guests from Savoy, Piedmont, Italy, and other places; andevery one said he had never seen any sight more captivating than thislovely lady moving with grace of motion and majestic mien, all agreeingthat she had no need of the flaming torch which she held in her hand;for the flashing light from her brilliant eyes was sufficient toilluminate the set, and to pierce the dark veil of Night. 

 * * * * *

THE SHADOW OF A TOMB

From 'Lives of Courtly Women'

Once I had an elder brother who was called Captain Bourdeille, one ofthe bravest and most valiant soldiers of his time. Although he was mybrother, I must praise him, for the record he made in the wars broughthim fame. He was the _gentilhomme de France_ who stood first in thescience and gallantry of arms. He was killed during the last siege ofHesdin. My brother's parents had destined him for the career of letters, and accordingly sent him at the age of eighteen to study in Italy, wherehe settled in Ferrara because of Madame Renée de France, Duchess ofFerrara, who ardently loved my mother. He enjoyed life at her court, and soon fell deeply in love with a young French widow, --Mademoiselle deLa Roche, --who was in the suite of Madame de Ferrara. 

They remained there in the service of love, until my father, seeing thathis son was not following literature, ordered him home. She, who lovedhim, begged him to take her with him to France and to the court ofMarguerite of Navarre, whom she had served, and who had given her toMadame Renée when she went to Italy upon her marriage. My brother, whowas young, was greatly charmed to have her companionship, and conductedher to Pau. The Queen was glad to welcome her, for the young widow washandsome and accomplished, and indeed considered superior in _esprit_ tothe other ladies of the court. 

After remaining a few days with my mother and grandmother, who werethere, my brother visited his father. In a short time he declared thathe was disgusted with letters, and joined the army, serving in the warsof Piedmont and Parma, where he acquired much honor in the space of fiveor six months; during which time he did not revisit his home. At the endof this period he went to see his mother at Pau. He made his reverenceto the Queen of Navarre as she returned from vespers; and she, who wasthe best princess in the world, received him cordially, and taking hishand, led him about the church for an hour or two. She demanded newsregarding the wars of Piedmont and Italy, and many other particulars, towhich my brother replied so well that she was greatly pleased with him. He was a very handsome young man of twenty-four years. After talkinggravely and engaging him in earnest conversation, walking up and downthe church, she directed her steps toward the tomb of Mademoiselle de LaRoche, who had been dead for three months. She stopped here, and againtook his hand, saying, "My cousin" (thus addressing him because adaughter of D'Albret was married into our family of Bourdeille; but ofthis I do not boast, for it has not helped me particularly), "do you notfeel something move below your feet?"

"No, Madame, " he replied. 

"But reflect again, my cousin, " she insisted. 

My brother answered, "Madame, I feel nothing move. I stand upon a solidstone. "

"Then I will explain, " said the Queen, "without keeping you longer insuspense, that you stand upon the tomb and over the body of your poordearly-loved Mademoiselle de La Roche, who is interred here; and thatour friends may have sentiment for us at our death, render a pioushomage here. You cannot doubt that the gentle creature, dying sorecently, must have been affected when you approached. In remembrance Ibeg you to say a paternoster and an Ave Maria and a de profundis, andsprinkle holy water. Thus you will win the name of a very faithful loverand a good Christian. "

 * * * * *

M. LE CONSTABLE ANNE DE MONTMORENCY

From 'Lives of Distinguished Men and Great Captains'

He never failed to say and keep up his paternosters every morning, whether he remained in the house, or mounted his horse and went out tothe field to join the army. It was a common saying among the soldiersthat one must "beware the paternosters of the Constable. " For asdisorders were very frequent, he would say, while mumbling and mutteringhis paternosters all the time, "Go and fetch that fellow and hang me himup to this tree;" "Out with a file of harquebusiers here before me thisinstant, for the execution of this man!" "Burn me this villageinstantly!" "Cut me to pieces at once all these villain peasants, whohave dared to hold this church against the king!" All this without everceasing from his paternosters till he had finished them--thinking thathe would have done very wrong to put them off to another time; soconscientious was he!

 * * * * *

TWO FAMOUS ENTERTAINMENTS

From 'Lives of Courtly Women'

I have read in a Spanish book called 'El Viaje del Principe' (The Voyageof the Prince), made by the King of Spain in the Pays-Bas in the time ofthe Emperor Charles, his father, about the wonderful entertainmentsgiven in the rich cities. The most famous was that of the Queen ofHungary in the lovely town of Bains, which passed into a proverb, "Masbravas que las festas de Bains" (more magnificent than the festivals ofBains). Among the displays which were seen during the siege of acounterfeit castle, she ordered for one day a fête in honor of theEmperor her brother, Queen Eleanor her sister, and the gentlemen andladies of the court. 

Toward the end of the feast a lady appeared with six Oread-nymphs, dressed as huntresses in classic costumes of silver and green, glittering with jewels to imitate the light of the moon. Each onecarried a bow and arrows in her hand and wore a quiver on her shoulder;their buskins were of cloth of silver. They entered the hall, leadingtheir dogs after them, and placed on the table in front of the Emperorall kinds of venison pasties, supposed to have been the spoils of thechase. After them came the Goddess of Shepherds and her six nymphs, dressed in cloth of silver, garnished with pearls. They woreknee-breeches beneath their flowing robes, and white pumps, and broughtin various products of the dairy. 

Then entered the third division--Pomona and her nymphs--bearing fruit ofall descriptions. This goddess was the daughter of Donna BeatrixPacheco, Countess d'Autremont, lady-in-waiting to Queen Eleanor, and wasbut nine years old. She was now Madame l'Admirale de Chastillon, whomthe Admiral married for his second wife. Approaching with hercompanions, she presented her gifts to the Emperor with an eloquentspeech, delivered so beautifully that she received the admiration of theentire assembly, and all predicted that she would become a beautiful, charming, graceful, and captivating lady. She was dressed in cloth ofsilver and white, with white buskins, and a profusion of preciousstones--emeralds, colored like some of the fruit she bore. After makingthese presentations, she gave the Emperor a Palm of Victory, made ofgreen enamel, the fronds tipped with pearls and jewels. This was veryrich and gorgeous. To Queen Eleanor she gave a fan containing a mirrorset with gems of great value. Indeed, the Queen of Hungary showed thatshe was a very excellent lady, and the Emperor was proud of a sisterworthy of himself. All the young ladies who impersonated these mythicalcharacters were selected from the suites of France, Hungary, and Madamede Lorraine; and were therefore French, Italian, Flemish, German, and ofLorraine. None of them lacked beauty. 

At the same time that these fêtes were taking place at Bains, Henry II. Made his entrée in Piedmont and at his garrisons in Lyons, where wereassembled the most brilliant of his courtiers and court ladies. If therepresentation of Diana and her chase given by the Queen of Hungary wasfound beautiful, the one at Lyons was more beautiful and complete. Asthe king entered the city, he saw obelisks of antiquity to the right andleft, and a wall of six feet was constructed along the road to thecourtyard, which was filled with underbrush and planted thickly withtrees and shrubbery. In this miniature forest were hidden deer andother animals. 

As soon as his Majesty approached, to the sound of horns and trumpetsDiana issued forth with her companions, dressed in the fashion of aclassic nymph with her quiver at her side and her bow in her hand. Herfigure was draped in black and gold sprinkled with silver stars, thesleeves were of crimson satin bordered with gold, and the garment, looped up above the knee, revealed her buskins of crimson satin coveredwith pearls and embroidery. Her hair was entwined with magnificentstrings of rich pearls and gems of much value, and above her brow wasplaced a crescent of silver, surrounded by little diamonds. Gold couldnever have suggested half so well as the shining silver the white lightof the real crescent. Her companions were attired in classic costumesmade of taffetas of various colors, shot with gold, and their ringletswere adorned with all kinds of glittering gems. .. . 

Other nymphs carried darts of Brazil-wood tipped with black and whitetassels, and carried horns and trumpets suspended by ribbons of whiteand black. When the King appeared, a lion, which had long been undertraining, ran from the wood and lay at the feet of the Goddess, whobound him with a leash of white and black and led him to the king, accompanying her action with a poem of ten verses, which she deliveredmost beautifully. Like the lion--so ran the lines--the city of Lyons layat his Majesty's feet, gentle, gracious, and obedient to his command. This spoken, Diana and her nymphs made low bows and retired. 

Note that Diana and her companions were married women, widows, and younggirls, taken from the best society in Lyons, and there was no fault tobe found with the way they performed their parts. The King, the princes, and the ladies and gentlemen of the court were ravished. Madame deValentinois, called Diana of Poitiers, --whom the King served and inwhose name the mock chase was arranged, --was not less content. 

FREDRIKA BREMER

(1801-1865)

Fredrika Bremer was born at Tuorla Manor-house, near Åbo, in Finland, onthe 17th of August, 1801. In 1804 the family removed to Stockholm, andtwo years later to a large estate at Årsta, some twenty miles from thecapital, which was her subsequent home. At Årsta the father of Fredrika, who had amassed a fortune in the iron industry in Finland, set up anestablishment in accord with his means. The manor-house, built twocenturies before, had become in some parts dilapidated, but it wasultimately restored and improved beyond its original condition. From itswindows on one side the eye stretched over nearly five miles of meadows, fields, and villages belonging to the estate. 

[Illustration: FREDRIKA BREMER]

In spite of its surroundings, however, Fredrika's childhood was not ahappy one. Her mother was severe and impatient of petty faults, and thechild's mind became embittered. Her father was reserved and melancholy. Fredrika herself was restless and passionate, although of anaffectionate nature. Among the other children she was the ugly duckling, who was misunderstood, and whose natural development was continuallychecked and frustrated. Her talents were early exhibited in a variety ofdirections. Her first verses, in French, to the morn, were written atthe age of eight. Subsequently she wrote comedies for home production, prose and verse of all sorts, and kept a journal, which has beenpreserved. In 1821 the whole family went on a tour abroad, from whichthey did not return until the following year, having visited in themeantime Germany, Switzerland, and France, and spent the winter inParis. This year among new scenes and surroundings seems to have broughthome to Fredrika, upon the resumption of her old life in the country, its narrowness and its isolation. She was entirely shut off from alldesired activity; her illusions vanished one by one. "I was conscious, "she says in her short autobiography, "of being born with powerful wings, but I was conscious of their being clipped;" and she fancied that theywould remain so. 

Her attention, however, was fortunately attracted from herself to thepoor and sick in the country round about; and she presently became tothe whole region a nurse and a helper, denying herself all sorts ofcomforts that she might give them to others, and braving storm andhunger on her errands of mercy. In order to earn money for her charitiesshe painted miniature portraits of the Crown Princess and the King, andsecretly sold them. Her desire to increase the small sums she thusgained induced her to seek a publisher for a number of sketches she hadwritten. Her brother readily disposed of the manuscript for a hundredrix-dollars; and her first book, 'Teckningar ur Hvardagslifvet'(Sketches of Every-day Life), appeared in 1828, but without the name ofthe author, of whose identity the publisher himself was left inignorance. The book was received with such favor that the young authorwas induced to try again; and what had originally been intended as asecond volume of the 'Sketches' appeared in 1830 as 'Familjen H. ' (TheH. Family). Its success was immediate and unmistakable. It not only wasreceived with applause, but created a sensation, and Swedish literaturewas congratulated on the acquisition of a new talent among its writers. 

The secret of Fredrika's authorship--which had as yet not been confidedeven to her parents--was presently revealed to the poet (and laterbishop) Franzén, an old friend of the family. Shortly afterward theSwedish Academy, of which Franzén was secretary, awarded her its lessergold medal as a sign of appreciation. A third volume met with evengreater success than its predecessors, and seemed definitely to pointout the career which she subsequently followed; and from this time untilthe close of her life she worked diligently in her chosen field. Sherapidly acquired an appreciative public in and out of Sweden. Many ofher novels and tales were translated into various languages, several ofthem appearing simultaneously in Swedish and English. In 1844 theSwedish Academy awarded her its great gold medal of merit. 

Several long journeys abroad mark the succeeding years: to Denmark andAmerica from 1848 to 1857; to Switzerland, Belgium, France, Italy, Palestine, and Greece, from 1856 to 1861; to Germany in 1862, returningthe same year. The summer months of 1864 she spent at Årsta, which since1853 had passed out of the hands of the family. She removed there theyear after, and died there on the 31st of December. 

Fredrika Bremer's most successful literary work was in the line of herearliest writings, descriptive of the every-day life of the middleclasses. Her novels in this line have an unusual charm of expression, whose definable elements are an unaffected simplicity and a certainquiet humor which admirably fits the chosen _milieu_. Besides the onesalready mentioned, 'Presidentens Döttrar' (The President's Daughters), 'Grannarna' (The Neighbors), 'Hemmet' (The Home), 'Nina, ' and others, cultivated this field. Later she drifted into "tendency" fiction, makingher novels the vehicles for her opinions on important public questions, such as religion, philanthropy, and above all the equal rights of women. These later productions, of which 'Hertha' and 'Syskonlif' are the mostimportant, are far inferior to her earlier work. She had, however, thesatisfaction of seeing the realization of several of the movements whichshe had so ardently espoused: the law that unmarried women in Swedenshould attain their majority at twenty-five years of age; theorganization at Stockholm of a seminary for the education of womanteachers; and certain parliamentary reforms. 

In addition to her novels and short stories, she wrote some verse, mostly unimportant, and several books of travel, among them 'Hemmen i nyVerlden' (Homes in the New World), containing her experiences ofAmerica; 'Life in the Old World'; and 'Greece and the Greeks. '

 * * * * *

A HOME-COMING

From 'The Neighbors'

LETTER I. --FRANCISCA W. TO MARIA M. 

ROSENVIK, 1st June, 18. 

Here I am now, dear Maria, in my own house and home, at my ownwriting-table, and with my own Bear. And who then is Bear? no doubt youask. Who else should he be but my own husband? I call him _Bear_because--it so happens. I am seated at the window. The sun is setting. Two swans are swimming in the lake, and furrow its clear mirror. Threecows--_my cows_--are standing on the verdant margin, quiet, fat, andpensive, and certainly think of nothing. What excellent cows they are!Now the maid is coming up with the milk-pail. Delicious milk in thecountry! But what is not good in the country? Air and people, food andfeelings, earth and sky, everything there is fresh and cheering. 

Now I must introduce you to my place of abode--no! I must begin fartheroff. Upon yonder hill, from which I first beheld the valley in whichRosenvik lies (the hill is some miles in the interior of Smaaland) doyou descry a carriage covered with dust? In it are seated Bear and hiswedded wife. The wife is looking out with curiosity, for before her liesa valley so beautiful in the tranquillity of evening! Below are greengroves which fringe mirror-clear lakes, fields of standing corn bend insilken undulations round gray mountains, and white buildings glance amidthe trees. Round about, pillars of smoke are shooting up vertically fromthe wood-covered hills to the serene evening sky. This seems to indicatethe presence of volcanoes, but in point of fact it is merely thepeaceful labor of the husbandmen burning the vegetation, in order tofertilize the soil. At all events, it is an excellent thing, and I amdelighted, bend forward, and am just thinking about a happy family innature, --Paradise, and Adam and Eve, --when suddenly Bear puts his greatpaws around me, and presses me so that I am near giving up the ghost, while, kissing me, he entreats me to "be comfortable here. " I was alittle provoked; but when I perceived the heartfelt intention of theembrace, I could not but be satisfied. 

In this valley, then, was my permanent home: here my new family wasliving; here lay Rosenvik; here I was to live with my Bear. We descendedthe hill, and the carriage rolled rapidly along the level way. Bear toldme the names of every estate, both in the neighborhood and at adistance. I listened as if I were dreaming, but was roused from myreverie when he said with a certain stress, "_Here_ is the residence of_ma chère mère_, " and the carriage drove into a courtyard, and stoppedbefore a large and fine stone house. 

"What, are we going to alight here?" "Yes, my love. " This was by nomeans an agreeable surprise to me. I would gladly have first driven tomy own home, there to prepare myself a little for meeting my husband'sstepmother, of whom I was a little afraid, from the accounts I had heardof that lady, and the respect Bear entertained for her. This visitappeared entirely _mal àpropos_ to me, but Bear has his own ideas, and Iperceived from his manner that it was not expedient then to offer anyresistance. 

It was Sunday, and on the carriage drawing up, the tones of a violinbecame audible to me. "Aha!" said Bear, "so much the better;" made aponderous leap from the carriage, and lifted me out. Of hat-cases andpackages, no manner of account was to be taken. Bear took my hand, ushered me up the steps into the magnificent hall, and dragged me towardthe door from whence the sounds of music and dancing were heard. "See, "thought I, "now I am to dance in this costume forsooth!" I wished to gointo some place where I could shake the dust from my nose and my bonnet;where I could at least view myself in a mirror. Impossible! Bear, leading me by the arm, assured me that I looked "most charming, " andentreated me to mirror myself in his eyes. I then needs must be sodiscourteous as to reply that they were "too small. " He protested thatthey were only the clearer, and opened the door to the ball-room. "Well, since you lead me to the ball, you shall also dance with me, you Bear!"I exclaimed in the gayety of despair, so to speak. "With delight!" criedBear, and at the same moment we found ourselves in the salon. 

My alarm diminished considerably when I perceived in the spacious roomonly a crowd of cleanly attired maids and serving-men, who were sweepingmerrily about with one another. They were so busied with dancing asscarcely to observe us. Bear then conducted me to the upper end of theapartment; and there, on a high seat, I saw a tall and strong lady ofabout fifty, who was playing on a violin with zealous earnestness, andbeating time with her foot, which she stamped with energy. On her headshe wore a remarkable and high-projecting cap of black velvet, which Iwill call a helmet, because that word occurred to my mind at the veryfirst view I had of her, and I know no one more appropriate. She lookedwell, but singular. It was the lady of General Mansfelt, my husband'sstepmother, _ma chère mère!_

She speedily cast her large dark-brown eyes on me, instantly ceasedplaying, laid aside the violin, and drew herself up with a proudbearing, but an air of gladness and frankness. Bear led me towards her. I trembled a little, bowed profoundly, and kissed _ma chère mère's_hand. She kissed my forehead, and for a while regarded me with such akeen glance, that I was compelled to abase my eyes, on which she againkissed me most cordially on lips and forehead, and embraced me almost aslustily as Bear had. Now it was Bear's turn; he kissed the hand of _machère mère_ right respectfully; she however offered him her cheek, andthey appeared very friendly. "Be welcome, my dear friends!" said _machère mère_, with a loud, masculine voice. "It was handsome in you tocome to me before driving to your own home. I thank you for it. I wouldindeed have given you a better reception had I been prepared; at allevents, I know that 'Welcome is the best cheer. ' I hope, my friends, youstay the evening here?" Bear excused us, said that we desired to gethome soon, that I was fatigued from the journey, but that we would notdrive by Carlsfors without paying our respects to _ma chère mère_. 

"Well, very good, well, very good!" said _ma chère mère_, withsatisfaction; "we will shortly talk further about that in the chamberthere; but first I must say a few words to the people here. Hark ye, good friends!" and _ma chère mère_ knocked with the bow on the back ofthe violin, till a general silence ensued in the salon. "My children, "she pursued in a solemn manner, "I have to tell you--a plague upon you!will you not be still there, at the lower end?--I have to inform youthat my dear son, Lars Anders Werner, has now led home, as his weddedwife, this Francisca Burén whom you see at his side. Marriages are madein heaven, my children, and we will supplicate heaven to complete itswork in blessing this conjugal pair. We will this evening together drinka bumper to their prosperity. That will do! Now you can continue yourdancing, my children. Olof, come you here, and do your best in playing. "

While a murmur of exultation and congratulations went through theassembly, _ma chère mère_ took me by the hand, and led me, together withBear, into another room. Here she ordered punch and glasses to bebrought in. In the interim she thrust her two elbows on the table, placed her clenched hands under her chin, and gazed steadfastly at me, but with a look which was rather gloomy than friendly. Bear, perceivingthat _ma chère mère's_ review embarrassed me, broached the subject ofthe harvest or rural affairs. _Ma chère mère_ vented a few sighs, sodeep that they rather resembled groans, appeared to make a violenteffort to command herself, answered Bear's questions, and on the arrivalof the punch, drank to us, saying, with a serious look and voice, "Sonand son's wife, your health!" On this she grew more friendly, and saidin a tone of pleasantry, which beseemed her very well, "Lars Anders, Idon't think people can say you have bought the calf in the sack. Yourwife does not by any means look in bad case, and has a pair of eyes tobuy fish with. Little she is, it is true; but 'Little and bold is oftenmore than a match for the great. '"

I laughed, so did _ma chère mère_ also; I began to understand hercharacter and manner. We gossiped a little while together in a livelymanner, and I recounted some little adventures of travel, which amusedher exceedingly. After the lapse of an hour, we arose to take leave, and_ma chère mère_ said, with a really charming smile, "I will not detainyou this evening, delighted as I am to see you. I can well imagine thathome is attractive. Stay at home to-morrow, if you will; but the dayafter to-morrow come and dine with me. As to the rest, you know wellthat you are at all times welcome. Fill now your glasses, and come anddrink the folks' health. Sorrow we should keep to ourselves, but sharejoy in common. "

We went into the dancing-room with full glasses, _ma chère mère_ leadingthe way as herald. They were awaiting us with bumpers, and _ma chèremère_ addressed the people something in this strain:--"We must notindeed laugh until we get over the brook; but when we set out on thevoyage of matrimony with piety and good sense, then may be applied theadage that 'Well begun is half won'; and on that, my friends, we willdrink a skoal to this wedded pair you see before you, and wish that boththey and their posterity may ever 'sit in the vineyard of ourLord. ' Skoal!"

"Skoal! skoal!" resounded from every side. Bear and I emptied ourglasses, and went about and shook a multitude of people by the hand, till my head was all confusion. When this was over, and we werepreparing to prosecute our journey, _ma chère mère_ came after us on thesteps with a packet or bundle in her hand, and said in a friendlymanner, "Take this cold roast veal with you, children, for breakfastto-morrow morning. After that, you must fatten and consume your owncalves. But forget not, daughter-in-law, that I get back my napkin. No, you shan't carry it, dear child, you have enough to do with your bag andmantle. Lars Anders shall carry the roast veal. " And as if Lars Andershad been still a little boy, she charged him with the bundle, showed himhow he was to carry it, and Bear did as she said. Her last words were, "Forget not that I get my napkin again!" I looked with some degree ofwonder at Bear; but he smiled, and lifted me into the carriage. 

THE LANDED PROPRIETOR

From 'The Home'

Louise possessed the quality of being a good listener in a higher degreethan any one else in the family, and therefore she heard more than anyone else of his Excellency; but not of him only, for Jacobi had alwayssomething to tell her, always something to consult her about; and incase she were not too much occupied with her thoughts about the weaving, he could always depend upon the most intense sympathy, and the bestadvice both with regard to moral questions and economical arrangements, dress, plans for the future, and so forth. He also gave her goodadvice--which however was very seldom followed--when she was playingPostilion; he also drew patterns for her tapestry work, and was veryfond of reading aloud to her--but novels rather than sermons. 

But he was not long allowed to sit by her side alone; for very soon aperson seated himself at her other side whom we will call the _LandedProprietor_, as he was chiefly remarkable for the possession of a largeestate in the vicinity of the town. 

The Landed Proprietor seemed to be disposed to dispute with theCandidate--let us continue to call him so, as we are all, in one way orthe other, Candidates in this world--the place which he possessed. TheLanded Proprietor had, besides his estate, a very portly body; round, healthy-looking cheeks; a pair of large gray eyes, remarkable for theirwant of expression; and a little rosy mouth, which preferred masticationto speaking, which laughed without meaning, and which now began todirect to "Cousin Louise"--for he considered himself related to theLagman--several short speeches, which we will recapitulate in thefollowing chapter, headed

STRANGE QUESTIONS

"Cousin Louise, are you fond of fish--bream for instance?" asked theLanded Proprietor one evening, as he seated himself by the side ofLouise, who was busy working a landscape in tapestry. 

"Oh, yes! bream is a very good fish, " answered she, phlegmatically, without looking up. 

"Oh, with red-wine sauce, delicious! I have splendid fishing on myestate, Oestanvik. Big fellows of bream! I fish for them myself. "

"Who is the large fish there?" inquired Jacobi of Henrik, with animpatient sneer; "and what is it to him if your sister Louise is fond ofbream or not?"

"Because then she might like him too, _mon cher_! A very fine and solidfellow is my cousin Thure of Oestanvik. I advise you to cultivate hisacquaintance. What now, Gabrielle dear, what now, your Highness?"

"What is that which--"

"Yes, what is it? I shall lose my head over that riddle. Mamma dear, come and help your stupid son!"

"No, no! Mamma knows it already. She must not say it!" exclaimedGabrielle with fear. 

"What king do you place above all other kings, Magister?" asked Petreafor the second time, --having this evening her "raptus" of questioning. 

"Charles the Thirteenth, " answered the Candidate, and listened for whatLouise was going to reply to the Landed Proprietor. 

"Do you like birds, Cousin Louise?" asked the Landed Proprietor. 

"Oh yes, particularly the throstle, " answered Louise. 

"Well, --I am glad of that!" said the Landed Proprietor. "On my estate, Oestanvik, there is an immense quantity of throstles. I often go outwith my gun, and shoot them for my dinner. Piff, paff! with two shots Ihave directly a whole dishful. "

Petrea, who was asked by no one "Do you like birds, cousin?" and whowished to occupy the Candidate, did not let herself be deterred by hisevident confusion, but for the second time put the followingquestion:--"Do you think, Magister, that people before the Flood werereally worse than they are nowadays?"

"Oh, much, much better, " answered the Candidate. 

"Are you fond of roasted hare, Cousin Louise?" asked the LandedProprietor. 

"Are you fond of roasted hare, Magister?" whispered Petrea waggishly toJacobi. 

"Brava, Petrea!" whispered her brother to her. 

"Are you fond of cold meat, Cousin Louise?" asked the LandedProprietor, as he was handing Louise to the supper-table. 

"Are you fond of Landed Proprietor?" whispered Henrik to her as she leftit. 

Louise answered just as a cathedral would have answered: she looked verysolemn and was silent. 

After supper Petrea was quite excited, and left nobody alone who by anypossibility could answer her. "Is reason sufficient for mankind? What isthe ground of morals? What is properly the meaning of 'revelation'? Whyis everything so badly arranged in the State? Why must there be rich andpoor?" etc. , etc. 

"Dear Petrea!" said Louise, "what use can there be in asking thosequestions?"

It was an evening for questions; they did not end even when the companyhad broken up. 

"Don't you think, Elise, " said the Lagman to his wife when they werealone, "that our little Petrea begins to be disagreeable with hercontinual questioning and disputing? She leaves no one in peace, and isstirred up herself the whole time. She will make herself ridiculous ifshe keeps on in this way. "

"Yes, if she does keep on so. But I have a feeling that she will change. I have observed her very particularly for some time, and do you know, Ithink there is really something very uncommon in that girl. "

"Yes, yes, there is certainly something uncommon in her. Her livelinessand the many games and schemes which she invents--"

"Yes, don't you think they indicate a decided talent for the fine arts?And then her extraordinary thirst for learning: every morning, betweenthree and four o'clock, she gets up in order to read or write, or towork at her compositions. That is not at all a common thing. And may nother uneasiness, her eagerness to question and dispute, arise from a sortof intellectual hunger? Ah, from such hunger, which many women mustsuffer throughout their lives, from want of literary food, --from such anemptiness of the soul arise disquiet, discontent, nay, innumerablefaults. "

"I believe you are right, Elise, " said the Lagman, "and no condition inlife is sadder, particularly in more advanced years. But this shall notbe the lot of our Petrea--that I will promise. What do you think nowwould benefit her most?"

"My opinion is that a serious and continued plan of study would assistin regulating her mind. She is too much left to herself with herconfused tendencies, with her zeal and her inquiry. I am too ignorantmyself to lead and instruct her, you have too little time, and she hasno one here who can properly direct her young and unregulated mind. Sometimes I almost pity her, for her sisters don't understand at allwhat is going on within her, and I confess it is often painful tomyself; I wish I were more able to assist her. Petrea needs some groundon which to take her stand. Her thoughts require more firmness; from thewant of this comes her uneasiness. She is like a flower without roots, which is moved about by wind and waves. "

"She shall take root, she shall find ground as sure as it is to be foundin the world, " said the Lagman, with a serious and beaming eye, at thesame time striking his hand on the book containing the law of WestGotha, so that it fell to the ground. "We will consider more of this, Elise, " continued he: "Petrea is still too young for us to judge withcertainty of her talents and tendencies. But if they turn out to be whatthey appear, then she shall never feel any hunger as long as I live andcan procure bread for my family. You know my friend, the excellentBishop B----: perhaps we can at first confide our Petrea to hisguidance. After a few years we shall see; she is still only a child. Don't you think that we ought to speak to Jacobi, in order to get him toread and converse with her? Apropos, how is it with Jacobi? I imaginethat he begins to be too attentive to Louise. "

"Well, well! you are not so far wrong; and even our cousin Thure ofOestanvik, --have you perceived anything there?"

"Yes, I did perceive something yesterday evening; what the deuce was hismeaning with those stupid questions he put to her? 'Does cousin likethis?' or 'Is cousin fond of that?' I don't like that at all myself. Louise is not yet full-grown, and already people come and ask her, 'Doescousin like--?' Well, it may signify very little after all, which wouldperhaps please me best. What a pity, however, that our cousin is not alittle more manly; for he has certainly got a most beautiful estate, andso near us. "

"Yes, a pity; because, as he is at present, I am almost sure Louisewould find it impossible to give him her hand. "

"You do not believe that her inclination is toward Jacobi?"

"To tell the truth, I fancy that this is the case. "

"Nay, that would be very unpleasant and very unwise: I am very fond ofJacobi, but he has nothing and is nothing. "

"But, my dear, he may get something and become something; I confess, dear Ernst, that I believe he would suit Louise better for a husbandthan any one else we know, and I would with pleasure call him my son. "

"Would you, Elise? then I must also prepare myself to do the same. Youhave had most trouble and most labor with the children, it is thereforeright that you should decide in their affairs. "

"Ernst, you are so kind!"

"Say just, Elise; not more than just. Besides, it is my opinion that ourthoughts and inclinations will not differ much. I confess that Louiseappears to me to be a great treasure, and I know of nobody I could giveher to with all my heart; but if Jacobi obtains her affections, I feelthat I could not oppose their union, although it would be painful to meon account of his uncertain prospects. He is really dear to me, and weare under great obligations to him on account of Henrik; his excellentheart, his honesty, and his good qualities, will make him as good acitizen as a husband and father, and I consider him to be one of themost agreeable men to associate with daily. But, God bless me! I speakas if I wished the union, but that is far from my desire: I would muchrather keep my daughters at home, so long as they find themselves happywith me; but when girls grow up, there is never any peace to depend on. I wish all lovers and questioners a long way off. Here we could livealtogether as in a kingdom of heaven, now that we have got everything insuch order. Some small improvements may still be wanted, but this willbe all right if we are only left in peace. I have been thinking that wecould so easily make a wardrobe here: do you see on this side of thewall--don't you think if we were to open--What! are you asleepalready, my dear?"

 * * * * *

Louise was often teased about Cousin Thure; Cousin Thure was oftenteased about Cousin Louise. He liked very much to be teased about hisCousin Louise, and it gave him great pleasure to be told that Oestanvikwanted a mistress, that he himself wanted a good wife, and that LouiseFrank was decidedly one of the wisest and most amiable girls in thewhole neighborhood, and of the most respectable family. The LandedProprietor was half ready to receive congratulations on his betrothal. What the supposed bride thought about the matter, however, is difficultto divine. Louise was certainly always polite to her "Cousin Thure, " butmore indifference than attachment seemed to be expressed in thispoliteness; and she declined, with a decision astonishing to many aperson, his constantly repeated invitations to make a tour to Oestanvikin his new landau drawn by "my chestnut horses, " four-in-hand. It wassaid by many that the agreeable and friendly Jacobi was much nearer toLouise's heart than the rich Landed Proprietor. But even towards Jacobiher behavior was so uniform, so quiet, and so unconstrained that nobodyknew what to think. Very few knew so well as we do that Louiseconsidered it in accordance with the dignity of a woman to show perfectindifference to the attentions or _doux propos_ of men, until they hadopenly and fully explained themselves. She despised coquetry to thatdegree that she feared everything which had the least appearance of it. Her young friends used to joke with her upon her strong notions in thisrespect, and often told her that she would remain unmarried. 

"That may be!" answered Louise calmly. 

One day she was told that a gentleman had said, "I will not stand up forany girl who is not a little coquettish!"

"Then he may remain sitting!" answered Louise, with a great deal ofdignity. 

Louise's views with regard to the dignity of woman, her serious anddecided principles, and her manner of expressing them, amused her youngfriends, at the same time that they inspired them with great regard forher, and caused many little contentions and discussions in which Louisefearlessly, though not without some excess, defended what was right. These contentions, which began in merriment, sometimes ended quitedifferently. 

A young and somewhat coquettish married lady felt herself one daywounded by the severity with which Louise judged the coquetry of hersex, particularly of married ladies, and in revenge she made use of somewords which awakened Louise's astonishment and anger at the same time. An explanation followed between the two, the consequence of which was acomplete rupture between Louise and the young lady, together with analtered disposition of mind in the former, which she in vain attemptedto conceal. She had been unusually joyous and lively during the firstdays of her stay at Axelholm; but she now became silent and thoughtful, often absent; and some people thought that she seemed less friendly thanformerly towards the Candidate, but somewhat more attentive to theLanded Proprietor, although she constantly declined his invitation "totake a tour to Oestanvik. "

The evening after this explanation took place, Elise was engaged withJacobi in a lively conversation in the balcony. 

"And if, " said Jacobi, "if I endeavor to win her affections, oh, tellme! would her parents, would her mother see it without displeasure? Ah, speak openly with me; the happiness of my life depends upon it!"

"You have my approval and my good wishes, " answered Elise; "I tell younow what I have often told my husband, that I should very much like tocall you my son!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Jacobi, deeply affected, falling on his knees andpressing Elise's hand to his lips: "oh, that every act in my life mightprove my gratitude, my love--!"

At this moment Louise, who had been looking for her mother, approachedthe balcony; she saw Jacobi's action and heard his words. She withdrewquickly, as if she had been stung by a serpent. 

From this time a great change was more and more perceptible in her. Silent, shy, and very pale, she moved about like a dreaming person inthe merry circle at Axelholm, and willingly agreed to her mother'sproposal to shorten her stay at this place. 

Jacobi, who was as much astonished as sorry at Louise's suddenunfriendliness towards him, began to think the place was somehowbewitched, and wished more than once to leave it. 

 * * * * *

A FAMILY PICTURE

From 'The Home'

The family is assembled in the library; tea is just finished. Louise, atthe pressing request of Gabrielle and Petrea, lays out the cards inorder to tell the sisters their fortune. The Candidate seats himselfbeside her, and seems to have made up his mind to be a little morecheerful. But then "the object" looks more like a cathedral than ever. The Landed Proprietor enters, bows, blows his nose, and kisses the handof his "gracious aunt. "

_Landed Proprietor_--Very cold this evening; I think we shall havefrost. 

_Elise_--It is a miserable spring; we have just read a melancholyaccount of the famine in the northern provinces; these years of dearthare truly unfortunate. 

_Landed Proprietor_--Oh yes, the famine up there. No, let us talk ofsomething else; that is too gloomy. I have had my peas covered withstraw. Cousin Louise, are you fond of playing Patience? I am very fondof it myself; it is so composing. At Oestanvik I have got very smallcards for Patience; I am quite sure you would like them, Cousin Louise. 

The Landed Proprietor seats himself on the other side of Louise. TheCandidate is seized with a fit of curious shrugs. 

_Louise_--This is not Patience, but a little conjuring by means of whichI can tell future things. Shall I tell your fortune, Cousin Thure?

_Landed Proprietor_--Oh yes! do tell my fortune; but don't tell meanything disagreeable. If I hear anything disagreeable in the evening, Ialways dream of it at night. Tell me now from the cards that I shallhave a pretty little wife;--a wife beautiful and amiable asCousin Louise. 

_The Candidate (with an expression in his eyes as if he would send theLanded Proprietor head-over-heels to Oestanvik)_--I don't know whetherMiss Louise likes flattery. 

_Landed Proprietor (who takes no notice of his rival)_--Cousin Louise, are you fond of blue?

_Louise_--Blue? It is a pretty color; but I almost like green better. 

_Landed Proprietor_--Well, that's very droll; it suits exceedingly well. At Oestanvik my drawing-room furniture is blue; beautiful light-bluesatin. But in my bedroom I have green moreen. Cousin Louise, Ibelieve really--

The Candidate coughs as though he were going to be suffocated, andrushes out of the room. Louise looks after him and sighs, and afterwardssees in the cards so many misfortunes for Cousin Thure that he isquite frightened. "The peas frosted!"--"conflagration in thedrawing-room"--and at last "a basket" ["the mitten"]. The LandedProprietor declares still laughingly that he will not receive "abasket. " The sisters smile and make their remarks. 

CLEMENS BRENTANO

(1778-1842)

The intellectual upheaval in Germany at the beginning of this centurybrought a host of remarkable characters upon the literary stage, andnone more gifted, more whimsical, more winning than Clemens Brentano, the erratic son of a brilliant family. Born September 8th, 1778, atEhrenbreitstein, Brentano spent his youth among the stimulatinginfluences which accompanied the renaissance of German culture. Hisgrandmother, Sophie de la Roche, had been the close friend of Wieland, and his mother the youthful companion of Goethe. Clemens, after a vainattempt to follow in the mercantile footsteps of his father, went toJena, where he met the Schlegels; and here his brilliant but unsteadyliterary career began. 

In 1803 he married the talented Sophie Mareau, but three years later hishappiness was terminated by her death. His next matrimonial venture was, however, a failure: an elopement in 1808 with the daughter of aFrankfort banker was quickly followed by a divorce, and he thereafterled the uncontrolled life of an errant poet. Among his early writings, published under the pseudonym of 'Marie, ' were several satires anddramas and a novel entitled 'Godwi, ' which he himself called "a romancegone mad. " The meeting with Achim von Arnim, who subsequently marriedhis sister Bettina, decided his fate: he embarked in literature once andfor all in close association with Von Arnim. Together they compiled acollection of several hundred folk-songs of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, under the name of 'Des Knaben Wunderhorn' (TheBoy's Wonderhorn), 1806-1808. That so musical a people as the Germansshould be masters of lyric poetry is but natural, --every longing, everyimpression, every impulse gushes into song; and in 'Des KnabenWunderhorn' we hear the tuneful voices of a naïve race, singing whatthey have seen or dreamed or felt during three hundred years. The workis dedicated to Goethe, who wrote an almost enthusiastic review of itfor the Literary Gazette of Jena. "Every lover or master of musicalart, " he says, "should have this volume upon his piano. "

The 'Wunderhorn' was greeted by the German public with extraordinarycordiality. It was in fact an epoch-making work, the pioneer in the newfield of German folk poetry. It carried out in a purely national spiritthe efforts which Herder had made in behalf of the folk-songs of allpeoples. It revealed the spirit of the time. 1806 was the year of thebattle of Jena, and Germany in her hour of deepest humiliation gave earto the encouraging voices from out her own past. "The editors of the'Wunderhorn, '" said their friend Görres, "have deserved of theircountrymen a civic crown, for having saved from destruction what yetremained to be saved;" and on this civic crown the poets' laurels arestill green. 

Brentano's contagious laughter may even now be heard re-echoing throughthe pages of his book on 'The Philistine' (1811). His dramatic power isevinced in the broadly conceived play 'Die Gründung Prags' (The Foundingof Prague: 1815); but it is upon two stories, told in the simple styleof the folk-tale, that his widest popularity is founded. 'Die Geschichtevom braven Casperl und der schönen Annerl' (The Story of Good Casper andPretty Annie) and his fable of 'Gockel, Hinkel, und Gackeleia, ' both ofthe year 1838, are still an indispensable part of the reading of everyGerman boy and girl. 

Like his brilliant sister, Brentano is a fascinating figure inliterature. He was amiable and winning, full of quips and cranks, andwith an inexhaustible fund of stories. Astonishing tales of adventure, related with great circumstantiality of detail, and of which he himselfwas the hero, played an important part in his conversation. Tieck oncesaid he had never known a better improvisatore than Brentano, nor onewho could "lie more gracefully. "

When Brentano was forty years of age a total change came over his life. The witty and fascinating man of the world was transformed into a piousand gloomy ascetic. The visions of the stigmatized nun of Dülmen, Katharina Emmerich, attracted him, and he remained under her influenceuntil her death in 1824. These visions he subsequently published as the'Life of the Virgin Mary. ' The eccentricities of his later yearsbordered upon insanity. He died in the Catholic faith in the year 1842. 

 THE NURSE'S WATCH

 From 'The Boy's Wonderhorn'

 The moon it shines, My darling whines; The clock strikes twelve:--God cheer The sick both far and near. God knoweth all; Mousy nibbles in the wall; The clock strikes one:--like day, Dreams o'er thy pillow play. The matin-bell Wakes the nun in convent cell; The clock strikes two:--they go To choir in a row. The wind it blows, The cock he crows; The clock strikes three:--the wagoner In his straw bed begins to stir. The steed he paws the floor, Creaks the stable door; The clock strikes four:--'tis plain The coachman sifts his grain. The swallow's laugh the still air shakes, The sun awakes; The clock strikes five:--the traveler must be gone, He puts his stockings on. The hen is clacking, The ducks are quacking; The clock strikes six:--awake, arise, Thou lazy hag; come, ope thy eyes. Quick to the baker's run; The rolls are done; The clock strikes seven:-- 'Tis time the milk were in the oven. Put in some butter, do, And some fine sugar, too; The clock strikes eight:-- Now bring my baby's porridge straight. 

 Englished by Charles T. Brooks. 

 THE CASTLE IN AUSTRIA

 From 'The Boy's Wonderhorn'

 There lies a castle in Austria, Right goodly to behold, Walled tip with marble stones so fair, With silver and with red gold. 

 Therein lies captive a young boy, For life and death he lies bound, Full forty fathoms under the earth, 'Midst vipers and snakes around. 

 His father came from Rosenberg, Before the tower he went:-- "My son, my dearest son, how hard Is thy imprisonment!"

 "O father, dearest father mine, So hardly I am bound, Full forty fathoms under the earth, 'Midst vipers and snakes around!"

 His father went before the lord:-- "Let loose thy captive to me! I have at home three casks of gold, And these for the boy I'll gi'e. "

 "Three casks of gold, they help you not: That boy, and he must die! He wears round his neck a golden chain; Therein doth his ruin lie. "

 "And if he thus wear a golden chain, He hath not stolen it; nay! A maiden good gave it to him For true love, did she say. "

 They led the boy forth from the tower, And the sacrament took he:-- "Help thou, rich Christ, from heaven high, It's come to an end with me!"

 They led him to the scaffold place, Up the ladder he must go:-- "O headsman, dearest headsman, do But a short respite allow!"

 "A short respite I must not grant; Thou wouldst escape and fly: Reach me a silken handkerchief Around his eyes to tie. "

 "Oh, do not, do not bind mine eyes! I must look on the world so fine; I see it to-day, then never more, With these weeping eyes of mine. "

 His father near the scaffold stood, And his heart, it almost rends:-- "O son, O thou my dearest son, Thy death I will avenge!"

 "O father, dearest father mine! My death thou shalt not avenge: 'Twould bring to my soul but heavy pains; Let me die in innocence. 

 "It is not for this life of mine, Nor for my body proud; 'Tis but for my dear mother's sake: At home she weeps aloud. "

 Not yet three days had passed away, When an angel from heaven came down: "Take ye the boy from the scaffold away; Else the city shall sink under ground!"

 And not six months had passed away, Ere his death was avenged amain; And upwards of three hundred men For the boy's life were slain. 

 Who is it that hath made this lay, Hath sung it, and so on? That, in Vienna in Austria, Three maidens fair have done. 

ELISABETH BRENTANO (BETTINA VON ARNIM)

(1785-1859)

No picture of German life at the beginning of this century would becomplete which did not include the distinguished women who left theirmark upon the time. Among these Bettina von Arnim stands easilyforemost. There was something triumphant in her nature, which in heryouth manifested itself in her splendid enthusiasm for the two greatgeniuses who dominated her life, --Goethe and Beethoven, --and which, inthe lean years when Germany was overclouded, maintained itself by aninexhaustible optimism. Her merry willfulness and wit covered a warmheart and a vigorous mind; and both of her great idols understood herand took her seriously. 

[Illustration: ELISABETH BRENTANO]

Elisabeth Brentano was the daughter of Goethe's friend, Maximiliane dela Roche. She was born at Frankfort-on-the-Main in 1785, and was broughtup after the death of her mother under the somewhat peculiar influenceof the highly-strung Caroline von Günderode. Through her filial intimacywith Goethe's mother, she came to know the poet; and out of theirfriendship grew the correspondence which formed the basis of Bettina'sfamous book, 'Goethe's Briefwechsel mit einem Kinde' (Goethe'sCorrespondence with a Child). She attached herself with unboundedenthusiasm to Goethe, and he responded with affectionate tact. To himBettina was the embodiment of the loving grace and willfulnessof 'Mignon. '

In 1811 these relations were interrupted, owing to Bettina's attitudetoward Goethe's wife. In the same year she married Achim von Arnim, oneof the most refined poets and noblest characters of that brilliantcircle. The marriage was an ideal one; each cherished and delighted inthe genius of the other, but in 1831 the death of Von Arnim brought thishappiness to an end. Goethe died in the following year, and Germany wentinto mourning. Then in 1835 Bettina appeared before the world for thefirst time as an authoress, in 'Goethe's Correspondence with a Child. 'The dithyrambic exaltation, the unrestrained but beautiful enthusiasm ofthe book came like an electric shock. Into an atmosphere of spiritualstagnation, these letters brought a fresh access of vitality and hope. Bettina's old friendly relations with Goethe had been resumed later inlife, and in a letter written to her niece she gives a charming accountof the visit to the poet in 1824, which proved to be her last. Thisletter first saw the light in 1896, and an extract from it has beenincluded below. 

The inspiration which went out from Bettina's magnetic nature wasprofound. She had her part in every great movement of her time, from theliberation of Greece to the fight with cholera in Berlin. During thelatter, her devotion to the cause of the suffering poor in Berlin openedher eyes to the miseries of the common people; and she wrote a work fullof indignant fervor, 'Dies Buch gehört dem König' (This Book belongs tothe King), in consequence of which her welcome at the court of FrederickWilliam IV. Grew cool. A subsequent book, written in a similar vein, wassuppressed. But Bettina's love of the people, as of every cause in whichshe was interested, was genuine and not to be quenched; she acted uponthe maxim once expressed by Emerson, "Every brave heart must treatsociety as a child, and never allow it to dictate. " Emerson greatlyadmired Bettina, and Louisa M. Alcott relates that she first madeacquaintance with the famous 'Correspondence' when in her girlhood shewas left to browse in Emerson's library. Bettina's influence was mostkeenly felt by the young, and she had the youth of Germany at her feet. She died in 1859. 

There is in Weimar a picture in which are represented the literary menof the period, grouped as in Raphael's School of Athens, with Goethe andSchiller occupying the centre. Upon the broad steps which lead to theelevation where they are standing, is the girlish figure of Bettinabending forward and holding a laurel wreath in her hand. This is theposition which she occupies in the history of German literature. 

 * * * * *

DEDICATION: TO GOETHE

From 'Goethe's Correspondence with a Child'

Thou, who knowest love, and the refinement of sentiment, oh howbeautiful is everything in thee! How the streams of life rush throughthy sensitive heart, and plunge with force into the cold waves of thytime, then boil and bubble up till mountain and vale flush with the glowof life, and the forests stand with glistening boughs upon the shore ofthy being, and all upon which rests thy glance is filled with happinessand life! O God, how happy were I with thee! And were I winging myflight far over all times, and far over thee, I would fold my pinionsand yield myself wholly to the domination of thine eyes. 

Men will never understand thee, and those nearest to thee will mostthoroughly disown and betray thee; I look into the future, and I hearthem cry, "Stone him!" Now, when thine own inspiration, like a lion, stands beside thee and guards thee, vulgarity ventures not to approachthee. Thy mother said recently, "The men to-day are all like Gerning, who always says, 'We, the superfluous learned';" and she speaks truly, for he is superfluous. Rather be dead than superfluous! But I am not so, for I am thine, because I recognize thee in all things. I know that whenthe clouds lift themselves up before the sun-god, they will soon bedepressed by his fiery hand; I know that he endures no shadow exceptthat which his own fame seeks; the rest of consciousness will overshadowthee. I know, when he descends in the evening, that he will again appearin the morning with golden front. Thou art eternal, therefore it is goodfor me to be with thee. 

When, in the evening, I am alone in my dark room, and the neighbors'lights are thrown upon my wall, they sometimes light up thy bust; orwhen all is silent in the city, here and there a dog barks or a cockcrows: I know not why, but it seems something beyond human to me; I knowwhat I shall do to still my pain. 

I would fain speak with thee otherwise than with words; I would fainpress myself to thy heart. I feel that my soul is aflame. How fearfullystill is the air before the storm! So stand now my thoughts, cold andsilent, and my heart surges like the sea. Dear, dear Goethe! Areminiscence of thee breaks the spell; the signs of fire and warfaresink slowly down in my sky, and thou art like the in-streamingmoonlight. Thou art great and glorious, and better than all that I haveever known and experienced up to this time. Thy whole life is so good!

TO GOETHE

CASSEL, August 13th, 1807. 

Who can interpret and measure what is passing within me? I am happy nowin remembrance of the past, which I scarcely was when that past was thepresent. To my sensitive heart the surprise of being with thee, thecoming and going and returning in a few blessed days--this was all likeclouds flitting across my heaven; through my too near presence I fearedit might be darkened by my shadow, as it is ever darker when it nearsthe earth; now, in the distance, it is mild and lofty and ever clear. 

I would fain press thy dear hand with both of mine to my bosom, and sayto thee, "How peace and content have come to me since I haveknown thee!"

I know that the evening has not come when life's twilight gathers in myheart: oh, would it were so! Would that I had lived out my days, that mywishes and joys were fulfilled, and that they could all be heaped uponthee, that thou mightst be therewith decked and crowned as withevergreen bays. 

When I was alone with thee on that evening I could not comprehend thee:thou didst smile at me because I was moved, and laughed at me because Iwept; but why? And yet it was thy laughter, the _tone_ of thy laughter, which moved me to tears; and I am content, and see, under the cloak ofthis riddle, roses burst forth which spring alike from sadness and joy. Yes, thou art right, prophet: I shall yet with light heart struggle upthrough jest and mirth; I shall weary myself with struggling as I did inmy childhood (ah, it seems as if it were but yesterday!) when with theexuberance of joy I wandered through the blossoming fields, pulling upthe flowers by the roots and throwing them into the water. But I wish toseek rest in a warm, firm earnestness, and there at hand standest thou, smiling prophet!

I say to thee yet once more: Whoever in this wide world understands whatis passing within me, who, am so restful in thee, so silent, sounwavering in my feeling? I could, like the mountains, bear nights anddays in the past without disturbing thee in thy reflections! And yetwhen at times the wind bears the fragrance and the germs together fromthe blossoming world up to the mountain heights, they will beintoxicated with delight as I was yesterday. Then I loved the world, then I was as glad as a gushing, murmuring spring in which the sun forthe first time shines. 

Farewell, sublime one who blindest and intimidatest me! From this steeprock upon which my love has in life-danger ventured, I cannot clamberdown. I cannot think of descending, for I should break my neck inthe attempt. 

BETTINA'S LAST MEETING WITH GOETHE

From a Letter to her Niece in 1824, first published in 1896

IN THE evening I was alone again with Goethe. Had any one observed us, he would have had something to tell to posterity. Goethe's peculiaritieswere exhibited to the full: first he would growl at me, then to make itall up again he would caress me, with the most flattering words. Hisbottle of wine he kept in the adjoining room, because I had reproachedhim for his drinking the night before: on some pretext or other hedisappeared from the scene half a dozen times in order to drink a glass. I pretended to notice nothing; but at parting I told him that twelveglasses of wine wouldn't hurt him, and that he had had only six. "How doyou know that so positively?" he said. "I heard the gurgle of the bottlein the next room, and I heard you drinking, and then you have betrayedyourself to me, as Solomon in the Song of Songs betrayed himself to hisbeloved, by your breath. " "You are an arrant rogue, " he said; "now takeyourself off, " and he brought the candle to light me out. But I sprangin front of him and knelt upon the threshold of the room. "Now I shallsee if I can shut you in, and whether you are a good spirit or an evilone, like the rat in Faust; I kiss this threshold and bless it, for overit daily passes the most glorious human spirit and my best friend. ""Over you and your love I shall never pass, " he answered, "it is toodear to me; and around your spirit I creep so" (and he carefully pacedaround the spot where I was kneeling), "for you are too artful, and itis better to keep on good terms with you. " And so he dismissed me withtears in his eyes. I remained standing in the dark before his door, togulp down my emotion. I was thinking that this door, which I had closedwith my own hand, had separated me from him in all probability forever. Whoever comes near him must confess that his genius has partly passedinto goodness; the fiery sun of his spirit is transformed at its settinginto a soft purple light. 

 IN GOETHE'S GARDEN

 I from this hillock all my world survey! Yon vale, bedecked by nature's fairy fingers, Where the still by-road picturesquely lingers, The cottage white whose quaint charms grace the way-- These are the scenes that o'er my heart hold sway. 

 I from this hillock all my world survey! Though I ascend to heights fair lands dividing, Where stately ships I see the ocean riding, While cities gird the view in proud array, Naught prompts my heart's impulses to obey. 

 I from this hillock all my world survey! And could I stand while Paradise descrying, Still for these verdant meads should I be sighing, Where thy dear roof-peaks skirt the verdant way: Beyond these bounds my heart longs not to stray. 

JOHN BRIGHT

(1811-1889)

John Bright was the modern representative of the ancient Tribunes of thepeople or Demagogues (in the original and perfectly honorable sense);and a full comparison of his work and position with those of the Cleonsor the Gracchi would almost be an outline of the respective peoples, polities, and problems. He was a higher type of man and politician thanCleon, --largely because the English aristocracy is not an unpatrioticand unprincipled clique like the Athenian, ready to use any weapon frommurder down or to make their country a province of a foreign empirerather than give up their class monopoly of power; but like hisprototype he was a democrat by nature as well as profession, the welfareof the common people at once his passion and his political livelihood, full of faith that popular instincts are both morally right andintellectually sound, and all his own instincts and most of his laborsantagonistic to those of the aristocracy. It is a phase of the same factto say that he also represented the active force of religious feeling inpolitics, as opposed to pure secular statesmanship. 

[Illustration: JOHN BRIGHT]

The son of a Quaker manufacturer of Rochdale, England, and born nearthat place November 16th, 1811, he began his public career when a mereboy as a stirring and effective temperance orator, his ready eloquenceand intense earnestness prevailing over an ungraceful manner and a baddelivery; he wrought all his life for popular education and for thewidest extension of the franchise; and being a Quaker and a member ofthe Peace Society, he opposed all war on principle, fighting the CrimeanWar bitterly, and leaving the Gladstone Cabinet in 1882 on account ofthe bombardment of Alexandria. He was retired from the service of thepublic for some time on account of his opposition to the Crimean War;but Mr. Gladstone, who differed from him on this point, calls it theaction of his life most worthy of honor. He was perhaps the most warlikeopponent of war ever high in public life; the pugnacious and aggressiveagitator, pouring out floods of fiery oratory to the effect that nobodyought to fight anybody, was a curious paradox. 

He was by far the most influential English friend of the North in theCivil War, and the magic of his eloquence and his name was a force ofperhaps decisive potency in keeping the working classes on the sameside; so that mass meetings of unemployed laborers with half-starvingfamilies resolved that they would rather starve altogether than help toperpetuate slavery in America. He shares with Richard Cobden the creditof having obtained free trade for England: Bright's thrilling oratorywas second only to Cobden's organizing power in winning the victory, andboth had the immense weight of manufacturers opposing their own class. That he opposed the game laws and favored electoral reform is a matterof course. 

Mr. Bright entered on an active political career in 1839, when he joinedthe Anti-Corn-Law League. He first became a member of Parliament in1843, and illustrates a most valuable feature of English politicalpractice. When a change of feeling in one place prevented hisre-election, he selected another which was glad to honor itself byhaving a great man represent it, so that the country was not robbed of astatesman by a village faction; and there being no spoils system, he didnot have to waste his time in office-jobbing to keep his seat. He satfirst for Durham, then for Manchester, and finally for Birmingham, remaining in public life over forty years; and never had to make a"deal" or get any one an office in all that period. 

He was in Mr. Gladstone's Cabinet from 1868 to 1870, and again from 1873to 1882. On the Home Rule question the two old friends and longco-workers divided; Mr. Bright, with more than half the oldest andsincerest friends of liberty and haters of oppression in England, holding the step to be political suicide for the British Empire. 

As an orator, Mr. Bright stood in a sense alone. He was direct andlogical; he carefully collected and massed his facts, and used strong, homely Saxon English, and short crisp words; he was a master of tellingepigram whose force lay in its truth as much as in its humor. Severalvolumes of his speeches have been published: 'On Public Affairs'; 'OnParliamentary Reform'; 'On Questions of Public Policy'; 'On the AmericanQuestion, ' etc. His life has been written by Gilchrist, Smith, Robertson, and others. He died March 27th, 1889. 

FROM THE SPEECH ON THE CORN LAWS (1843)

It must not be supposed, because I wish to represent the interest of themany, that I am hostile to the interest of the few. 

But is it not perfectly certain that if the foundation of the mostmagnificent building be destroyed and undermined, the whole fabricitself is in danger? Is it not certain, also, that the vast body of thepeople who form the foundation of the social fabric, if they aresuffering, if they are trampled upon, if they are degraded, if they arediscontented, if "their hands are against every man, and every man'shands are against them, " if they do not flourish as well, reasonablyspeaking, as the classes who are above them because they are richer andmore powerful, --then are those classes as much in danger as the workingclasses themselves?

There never was a revolution in any country which destroyed the greatbody of the people. There have been convulsions of a most dire characterwhich have overturned old-established monarchies and have hurled thronesand sceptres to the dust. There have been revolutions which have broughtdown most powerful aristocracies, and swept them from the face of theearth forever, but never was there a revolution yet which destroyed thepeople. And whatever may come as a consequence of the state of things inthis country, of this we may rest assured: that the common people, thatthe great bulk of our countrymen will remain and survive the shock, though it may be that the Crown and the aristocracy and the Church maybe leveled with the dust, and rise no more. In seeking to represent theworking classes, and in standing up for their rights and liberties, Ihold that I am also defending the rights and liberties of the middle andricher classes of society. Doing justice to one class cannot inflictinjustice on any other class, and "justice and impartiality to all" iswhat we all have a right to from government. And we have a right toclamor; and so long as I have breath, so long will I clamor against theoppression which I see to exist, and in favor of the rights of the greatbody of the people. .. . 

What is the condition in which we are? I have already spoken of Ireland. You know that hundreds of thousands meet there, week after week, invarious parts of the country, to proclaim to all the world the tyrannyunder which they suffer. You know that in South Wales, at this moment, there is an insurrection of the most extraordinary character going on, and that the Government is sending, day after day, soldiers andartillery amongst the innocent inhabitants of that mountainous countryfor the purpose of putting down the insurrection thereby raised andcarried on. You know that in the Staffordshire ironworks almost all theworkmen are now out and in want of wages, from want of employment andfrom attempting to resist the inevitable reduction of wages which mustfollow restriction upon trade. You know that in August last, Lancashireand Yorkshire rose in peaceful insurrection to proclaim to the world, and in face of Heaven, the wrongs of an insulted and oppressed people. Iknow that my own neighborhood is unsettled and uncomfortable. I knowthat in your own city your families are suffering. Yes, I have been toyour cottages and seen their condition. Thanks to my canvass of Durham, I have been able to see the condition of many honest and independent--orought-to-be-independent--and industrious artisans. I have seen evenfreemen of your city sitting, looking disconsolate and sad. Their handswere ready to labor; their skill was ready to produce all that theirtrade demanded. They were as honest and industrious as any man in thisassembly, but no man hired them. They were in a state of involuntaryidleness, and were driving fast to the point of pauperism. I have seentheir wives, too, with three or four children about them--one in thecradle, one at the breast. I have seen their countenances, and I haveseen the signs of their sufferings. I have seen the emblems and symbolsof affliction such as I did not expect to see in this city. Ay! and Ihave seen those little children who at not a distant day will be the menand women of this city of Durham; I have seen their poor little wanfaces and anxious looks, as if the furrows of old age were coming uponthem before they had escaped from the age of childhood. I have seen allthis in this city, and I have seen far more in the neighborhood fromwhich I have come. You have seen, in all probability, people from myneighborhood walking your streets and begging for that bread which theCorn Laws would not allow them to earn. 

 "Bread-taxed weaver, all can see What the tax hath done for thee, And thy children, vilely led, Singing hymns for shameful bread, Till the stones of every street Know their little naked feet. "

This is what the Corn Law does for the weavers of my neighborhood, andfor the weavers and artisans of yours. .. . 

FROM THE SPEECH ON INCENDIARISM IN IRELAND (1844)

The great and all-present evil of the rural districts is this--you havetoo many people for the work to be done, and you, the landedproprietors, are alone responsible for this state of things; and tospeak honestly, I believe many of you know it. I have been charged withsaying out-of-doors that this House is a club of land-owners legislatingfor land-owners. If I had not said it, the public must long ago havefound out that fact. My honorable friend the member for Stockport on oneoccasion proposed that before you passed a law to raise the price ofbread, you should consider how far you had the power to raise the ratesof wages. What did you say to that? You said that the laborers did notunderstand political economy, or they would not apply to Parliament toraise wages; that Parliament could not raise wages. And yet the verynext thing you did was to pass a law to raise the price of produce ofyour own land, at the expense of the very class whose wages youconfessed your inability to increase. 

What is the condition of the county of Suffolk? Is it not notorious thatthe rents are as high as they were fifty years ago, and probably muchhigher? But the return for the farmer's capital is much lower, and thecondition of the laborer is very much worse. The farmers are subject tothe law of competition, and rents are thereby raised from time to timeso as to keep their profits down to the lowest point, and the laborersby the competition amongst them are reduced to the point below whichlife cannot be maintained. Your tenants and laborers are being devouredby this excessive competition, whilst you, their magnanimous landlords, shelter yourselves from all competition by the Corn Law yourselves havepassed, and make the competition of all other classes serve still moreto swell your rentals. It was for this object the Corn Law was passed, and yet in the face of your countrymen you dare to call it a law for theprotection of native industry. .. . 

Again, a rural police is kept up by the gentry; the farmers say for thesole use of watching game and frightening poachers, for which formerlythey had to pay watchers. Is this true, or is it not? I say, then, youcare everything for the rights--and for something beyond the rights--ofyour own property, but you are oblivious to its duties. How many liveshave been sacrificed during the past year to the childish infatuation ofpreserving game? The noble lord, the member for North Lancashire, couldtell of a gamekeeper killed in an affray on his father's estate in thatcounty. For the offense one man was hanged, and four men are now ontheir way to penal colonies. Six families are thus deprived of husbandand father, that this wretched system of game-preserving may becontinued in a country densely peopled as this is. The Marquis ofNormanby's gamekeeper has been murdered also, and the poacher who shothim only escaped death by the intervention of the Home Secretary. AtGodalming, in Surrey, a gamekeeper has been murdered; and at Buckhill, in Buckinghamshire, a person has recently been killed in a poachingaffray. This insane system is the cause of a fearful loss of life; ittends to the ruin of your tenantry, and is the fruitful cause of thedemoralization of the peasantry. But you are caring for the rights ofproperty; for its most obvious duties you have no concern. With such apolicy, what can you expect but that which is now passing before you?

It is the remark of a beautiful writer that "to have known nothing butmisery is the most portentous condition under which human nature canstart on its course. " Has your agricultural laborer ever known anythingbut misery? He is born in a miserable hovel, which in mockery is termeda house or a home; he is reared in penury: he passes a life of hopelessand unrequited toil, and the jail or the union house is before him asthe only asylum on this side of the pauper's grave. Is this the resultof your protection to native industry? Have you cared for the laborertill, from a home of comfort, he has but a hovel for shelter? and haveyou cherished him into starvation and rags? I tell you what your boastedprotection is--it is a protection of native idleness at the expense ofthe impoverishment of native industry. 

FROM THE SPEECH ON NON-RECOGNITION OF THE SOUTHERN CONFEDERACY (1861)

I advise you, and I advise the people of England, to abstain fromapplying to the United States doctrines and principles which we neverapply to our own case. At any rate, they [the Americans] have neverfought "for the balance of power" in Europe. They have never fought tokeep up a decaying empire. They have never squandered the money of theirpeople in such a phantom expedition as we have been engaged in. And now, at this moment, when you are told that they are going to be ruined bytheir vast expenditure, --why, the sum that they are going to raise inthe great emergency of this grievous war is not greater than what weraise every year during a time of peace. 

They say they are not going to liberate slaves. No; the object of theWashington government is to maintain their own Constitution and to actlegally, as it permits and requires. No man is more in favor of peacethan I am; no man has denounced war more than I have, probably, in thiscountry; few men in their public life have suffered more obloquy--I hadalmost said, more indignity--in consequence of it. But I cannot for thelife of me see, upon any of those principles upon which States aregoverned now, --I say nothing of the literal word of the NewTestament, --I cannot see how the state of affairs in America, withregard to the United States government, could have been different fromwhat it is at this moment. We had a Heptarchy in this country, and itwas thought to be a good thing to get rid of it, and have a unitednation. If the thirty-three or thirty-four States of the American Unioncan break off whenever they like, I can see nothing but disaster andconfusion throughout the whole of that continent. I say that the war, beit successful or not, be it Christian or not, be it wise or not, is awar to sustain the government and to sustain the authority of a greatnation; and that the people of England, if they are true to their ownsympathies, to their own history, and to their own great act of 1834, towhich reference has already been made, will have no sympathy with thosewho wish to build up a great empire on the perpetual bondage of millionsof their fellow-men. 

FROM THE SPEECH ON THE STATE OF IRELAND (1866)

I think I was told in 1849, as I stood in the burial ground atSkibbereen, that at least four hundred people who had died of faminewere buried within the quarter of an acre of ground on which I was thenlooking. It is a country, too, from which there has been a greateremigration by sea within a given time than has been known at any timefrom any other country in the world. It is a country where there hasbeen, for generations past, a general sense of wrong, out of which hasgrown a chronic state of insurrection; and at this very moment when Ispeak, the general safeguard of constitutional liberty is withdrawn, andwe meet in this hall, and I speak here to-night, rather by theforbearance and permission of the Irish executive than under theprotection of the common safeguards of the rights and liberties of thepeople of the United Kingdom. 

I venture to say that this is a miserable and a humiliating picture todraw of this country. Bear in mind that I am not speaking of Polandsuffering under the conquest of Russia. There is a gentleman, now acandidate for an Irish county, who is very great upon the wrongs ofPoland; but I have found him always in the House of Commons taking sideswith that great party which has systematically supported the wrongs ofIreland. I am not speaking of Hungary, or of Venice as she was under therule of Austria, or of the Greeks under the dominion of the Turk; but Iam speaking of Ireland--part of the United Kingdom--part of that whichboasts itself to be the most civilized and the most Christian nation inthe world. I took the liberty recently, at a meeting in Glasgow, to saythat I believed it was impossible for a class to govern a great nationwisely and justly. Now, in Ireland there has been a field in which allthe principles of the Tory party have had their complete experiment anddevelopment. You have had the country gentleman in all his power. Youhave had any number of Acts of Parliament which the ancient Parliamentof Ireland or the Parliament of the United Kingdom could give him. Youhave had the Established Church supported by the law, even to theextent, not many years ago, of collecting its revenues by the aid ofmilitary force. In point of fact, I believe it would be impossible toimagine a state of things in which the Tory party should have a moreentire and complete opportunity for their trial than they have hadwithin the limits of this island. And yet what has happened? This, surely: that the kingdom has been continually weakened, that the harmonyof the empire has been disturbed, and that the mischief has not beenconfined to the United Kingdom, but has spread to the colonies. .. . 

I am told--you can answer it if I am wrong--that it is not common inIreland now to give leases to tenants, especially to Catholic tenants. If that be so, then the security for the property rests only upon thegood feeling and favor of the owner of the land; for the laws, as weknow, have been made by the land-owners, and many propositions for theadvantage of the tenants have unfortunately been too little consideredby Parliament. The result is that you have bad farming, baddwelling-houses, bad temper, and everything bad connected with theoccupation and cultivation of land in Ireland. One of the results--aresult the most appalling--is this, that your population is fleeing yourcountry and seeking refuge in a distant land. On this point I wish torefer to a letter which I received a few days ago from a most esteemedcitizen of Dublin. He told me that he believed that a very large portionof what he called the poor, amongst Irishmen, sympathized with anyscheme or any proposition that was adverse to the Imperial Government. He said further that the people here are rather in the country than ofit, and that they are looking more to America than they are looking toEngland. I think there is a good deal in that. When we consider how manyIrishmen have found a refuge in America, I do not know how we can wonderat that statement. You will recollect that when the ancient Hebrewprophet prayed in his captivity, he prayed with his window open towardsJerusalem. You know that the followers of Mohammed, when they pray, turntheir faces towards Mecca. When the Irish peasant asks for food andfreedom and blessing, his eye follows the setting sun, the aspirationsof his heart reach beyond the wide Atlantic, and in spirit he graspshands with the great Republic of the West. If this be so, I say thenthat the disease is not only serious, but it is desperate; but desperateas it is, I believe there is a certain remedy for it if the people andParliament of the United Kingdom are willing to apply it. .. . 

I believe that at the root of a general discontent there is in allcountries a general grievance and general suffering. The surface ofsociety is not incessantly disturbed without a cause. I recollect in thepoem of the greatest of Italian poets, he tells us that as he saw invision the Stygian lake, and stood upon its banks, he observed theconstant commotion upon the surface of the pool, and his good instructorand guide explained to him the cause of it:--

 "This, too, for certain know, that underneath The water dwells a multitude, whose sighs Into these bubbles make the surface heave, As thine eye tells thee wheresoe'er it turn. "

And I say that in Ireland, for generations back, the misery and thewrongs of the people have made their sign, and have found a voice inconstant insurrection and disorder. I have said that Ireland is acountry of many wrongs and of many sorrows. Her past lies almost inshadow. Her present is full of anxiety and peril. Her future depends onthe power of her people to substitute equality and justice forsupremacy, and a generous patriotism for the spirit of faction. In theeffort now making in Great Britain to create a free representation ofthe people you have the deepest interest. The people never wish tosuffer, and they never wish to inflict injustice. They have no sympathywith the wrong-doer, whether in Great Britain or in Ireland; and whenthey are fairly represented in the Imperial Parliament, as I hope theywill one day be, they will speedily give an effective and final answerto that old question of the Parliament of Kilkenny--"How comes it topass that the King has never been the richer for Ireland?"

FROM THE SPEECH ON THE IRISH ESTABLISHED CHURCH

(1868)

I am one of those who do not believe that the Established Church ofIreland--of which I am not a member--would go to absolute ruin, in themanner of which many of its friends are now so fearful. There was apaper sent to me this morning, called 'An Address from the Protestantsof Ireland to their Protestant Brethren of Great Britain. ' It is dated"5, Dawson Street, " and is signed by "John Trant Hamilton, T. A. Lefroy, and R. W. Gamble. " The paper is written in a fair and mild, and I wouldeven say, --for persons who have these opinions, --in a kindly and justspirit. But they have been alarmed, and I would wish, if I can, to offerthem consolation. They say they have no interest in protecting anyabuses of the Established Church, but they protest against their beingnow deprived of the Church of their fathers. Now, I am quite of opinionthat it would be a most monstrous thing to deprive the Protestants ofthe Church of their fathers; and there is no man in the world who wouldmore strenuously resist even any step in that direction than I would, unless it were Mr. Gladstone, the author of the famous resolutions. Thenext sentence goes on to say, "We ask for no ascendancy. " Having readthat sentence, I think that we must come to the conclusion that thesegentlemen are in a better frame of mind than we thought them to be in. Ican understand easily that these gentlemen are very sorry and doubtfulas to the depths into which they are to be plunged; but I disagree withthem in this--that I think there would still be a Protestant Church inIreland when all is done that Parliament has proposed to do. The onlydifference will be, that it will not then be an establishment--that itwill have no special favor or grant from the State--that it will standin relation to the State just as your Church does, and just as thechurches of the majority of the people of Great Britain at this momentstand. There will then be no Protestant bishops from Ireland to sit inthe House of Lords; but he must be the most enthusiastic Protestant andChurchman who believes that there can be any advantage to his Church andto Protestantism generally in Ireland from such a phenomenon. 

BRILLAT-SAVARIN

(1755-1826)

Brillat-Savarin was a French magistrate and legislator, whose reputationas man of letters rests mainly upon a single volume, his inimitable'Physiologie du Goût'. Although writing in the present century, he wasessentially a Frenchman of the old régime, having been born in 1755 atBelley, almost on the border-line of Savoy, where he afterwards gaineddistinction as an advocate. In later life he regretted his nativeprovince chiefly for its figpeckers, superior in his opinion to ortolansor robins, and for the cuisine of the innkeeper Genin, where "theold-timers of Belley used to gather to eat chestnuts and drink the newwhite wine known as _vin bourru_"

[Illustration: Brillat-Savarin]

After holding various minor offices in his department, Savarin becamemayor of Belley in 1793; but the Reign of Terror soon forced him to fleeto Switzerland and join the colony of French refugees at Lausanne. Souvenirs of this period are frequent in his 'Physiologie du Goût', alleminently gastronomic, as befits his subject-matter, but full ofinterest, as showing his unfailing cheerfulness amidst the vicissitudesand privations of exile. He fled first to Dôle, to "obtain from theRepresentative Prôt a safe-conduct, which was to save me from going toprison and thence probably to the scaffold, " and which he ultimatelyowed to Madame Prôt, with whom he spent the evening playing duets, andwho declared, "Citizen, any one who cultivates the fine arts as you docannot betray his country!" It was not the safe-conduct, however, but anunexpected dinner which he enjoyed on his route, that made this ared-letter day to Savarin:--"What a good dinner!--I will not give thedetails, but an honorable mention is due to a _fricassée_ of chicken, ofthe first order, such as cannot be found except in the provinces, and sorichly dowered with truffles that there were enough to put new life intoold Tithonus himself. "

The whole episode is told in Savarin's happiest vein, and well-nighjustifies his somewhat complacent conclusion that "any one who, with arevolutionary committee at his heels, could so conduct himself, assuredly has the head and the heart of a Frenchman!"

Natural scenery did not appeal to Savarin; to him Switzerland meant therestaurant of the Lion d'Argent, at Lausanne, where "for only 15 _batz_we passed in review three complete courses;" the _table d'hôte_ of theRue de Rosny; and the little village of Moudon, where the cheese_fondue_ was so good. Circumstances, however, soon necessitated hisdeparture for the United States, which he always gratefully rememberedas having afforded him "an asylum, employment, and tranquillity. " Forthree years he supported himself in New York, giving French lessons andat night playing in a theatre orchestra. "I was so comfortable there, "he writes, "that in the moment of emotion which preceded departure, allthat I asked of Heaven (a prayer which it has granted) was never to knowgreater sorrow in the Old World than I had known in the New. " Returningto France in 1796, Savarin settled in Paris, and after holding severaloffices under the Directory, became a Judge in the Cour de Cassation, the French court of last resort, where he remained until his deathin 1826. 

Although an able and conscientious magistrate, Savarin was betteradapted to play the kindly friend and cordial host than the stern andimpartial judge. He was a convivial soul, a lover of good cheer andfree-handed hospitality; and to-day, while almost forgotten as a jurist, his name has become immortalized as the representative of gastronomicexcellence. His 'Physiologic du Goût'--"that _olla podrida_ which defiesanalysis, " as Balzac calls it--belongs, like Walton's 'Compleat Angler', or White's 'Selborne', among those unique gems of literature, too rarein any age, which owe their subtle and imperishable charm primarily tothe author's own delightful personality. Savarin spent many years ofloving care in polishing his manuscript, often carrying it to court withhim, where it was one day mislaid, but--luckily for future generationsof epicures--was afterward recovered. The book is a charming badinage, abizarre ragoût of gastronomic precepts and spicy anecdote, doublypiquant for its prevailing tone of mock seriousness and intentionalgrandiloquence. 

In emulation of the poet Lamartine, Savarin divided his subject into'Meditations', of which the seventh is consecrated to the 'Theory ofFrying', and the twenty-first to 'Corpulence'. In the familiar aphorism, "Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are", he strikes hiskey-note; man's true superiority lies in his palate! "The pleasure ofeating we have in common with the animals; the pleasure of the table ispeculiar to the human species. " Gastronomy he proclaims the chief of allsciences: "It rules life in its entirety; for the tears of the new-borninfant summon the breast of its nurse, and the dying man still receiveswith some pleasure the final potion, which, alas, he is not destined todigest. " Occasionally he affects an epic strain, invoking Gasteria, "the tenth muse, who presides over the pleasures of taste. " "It is thefairest of the Muses who inspires me: I will be clearer than an oracle, and my precepts will traverse the centuries. " Beneath his pen, soup, "the first consolation of the needy stomach, " assumes fresh dignity; andeven the humble fowl becomes to the cook "what the canvas is to thepainter, or the cap of Fortunatus to the charlatan. " But like the worthyepicure that he was, Savarin reserved his highest flights of eloquencefor such rare and toothsome viands as the _Poularde fine de Bresse_, thepheasant, "an enigma of which the key-word is known only to the adepts, "a _sauté_ of truffles, "the diamonds of the kitchen, " or, best of all, truffled turkeys, "whose reputation and price are ever on the increase!Benign stars, whose apparition renders the gourmands of every categorysparkling, radiant, and quivering!" But the true charm of the book liesin Savarin's endless fund of piquant anecdotes, reminiscences of bygonefeasts, over which the reader's mouth waters. Who can read without acovetous pang his account of 'The Day at Home with the Bernadins, ' or ofhis entertainment of the Dubois brothers, of the _Rue du Bac_, "a bonbonwhich I have put into the reader's mouth to recompense him for hiskindness in having read me with pleasure"?

'Physiologic du Goût' was not published until 1825, and thenanonymously, presumably because he thought its tone inconsistent withhis dignity as magistrate. It would almost seem that he had apresentiment of impending death, for in the midst of his brightest'Variétés' he has incongruously inserted a dolorous little poem, theburden of each verse being "Je vais mourir. " The 'Physiologic du Goût'is now accessible to English readers in the versions of R. E. Anderson(London, 1877), and in a later one published in New York; but there is asubtle flavor to the original which defies translation. 

FROM THE 'PHYSIOLOGY OF TASTE'

THE PRIVATIONS

First parents of the human species, whose gormandizing is historic, youwho fell for the sake of an apple, what would you not have done for aturkey with truffles? But there were in the terrestrial Paradise neithercooks nor confectioners. 

How I pity you!

Mighty kings, who laid proud Troy in ruins, your valor will be handeddown from age to age; but your table was poor. Reduced to a rump of beefand a chine of pork, you were ever ignorant of the charms of the_matelote_ and the delights of a fricassée of chicken. 

How I pity you!

Aspasia, Chloe, and all of you whose forms the chisel of the Greeksimmortalized, to the despair of the belles of to-day, never did yourcharming mouths enjoy the smoothness of a meringue _à la vanille_ or _àla rose_; hardly did you rise to the height of a spice-cake. 

How I pity you!

Gentle priestesses of Vesta, at one and the same time burdened with somany honors and menaced with such horrible punishments, would that youmight at least have tasted those agreeable syrups which refresh thesoul, those candied fruits which brave the seasons, those perfumedcreams, the marvel of our day!

How I pity you!

Roman financiers, who made the whole known universe pay tribute, neverdid your far-famed banquet-halls witness the appearance of thosesucculent jellies, the delight of the indolent, nor those varied iceswhose cold would brave the torrid zone. 

How I pity you!

Invincible paladins, celebrated by flattering minstrels, when you hadcleft in twain the giants, set free the ladies, and exterminated armies, never, alas! never did a dark-eyed captive offer you the sparklingchampagne, the malmsey of Madeira, the liqueurs, creation of this greatcentury: you were reduced to ale or to some cheap herb-flavored wine. 

How I pity you!

Crosiered and mitred abbots, dispensers of the favors of heaven; andyou, terrible Templars, who donned your armor for the extermination ofthe Saracens, --you knew not the sweetness of chocolate which restores, nor the Arabian bean which promotes thought. 

How I pity you!

Superb châtelaines, who during the loneliness of the Crusades raisedinto highest favor your chaplains and your pages, you never could sharewith them the charms of the biscuit and the delights of the macaroon. 

How I pity you!

And lastly you, gastronomers of 1825, who already find satiety in thelap of abundance, and dream of new preparations, you will not enjoythose discoveries which the sciences have in store for the year 1900, such as esculent minerals and liqueurs resulting from a pressure of ahundred atmospheres; you will not behold the importations whichtravelers yet unborn shall cause to arrive from that half of the globewhich still remains to be discovered or explored. 

How I pity you!

ON THE LOVE OF GOOD LIVING

I have consulted the dictionaries under the word _gourmandise_, and amby no means satisfied with what I find. The love of good living seems tobe constantly confounded with gluttony and voracity; whence I infer thatour lexicographers, however otherwise estimable, are not to be classedwith those good fellows amongst learned men who can put away gracefullya wing of partridge, and then, by raising the little finger, wash itdown with a glass of Lafitte or Clos-Vougeot. 

They have utterly forgot that social love of good eating which combinesin one, Athenian elegance, Roman luxury, and Parisian refinement. Itimplies discretion to arrange, skill to prepare; it appreciatesenergetically, and judges profoundly. It is a precious quality, almostdeserving to rank as a virtue, and is very certainly the source of muchunqualified enjoyment. 

_Gourmandise_, or the love of good living, is an impassioned, rational, and habitual preference for whatever flatters the sense of taste. It isopposed to excess; therefore every man who eats to indigestion, or makeshimself drunk, runs the risk of being erased from the list of itsvotaries. _Gourmandise_ also comprises a love for dainties or tit-bits;which is merely an analogous preference, limited to light, delicate, orsmall dishes, to pastry, and so forth. It is a modification allowed infavor of the women, or men of feminine tastes. 

Regarded from any point of view, the love of good living deservesnothing but praise and encouragement. Physically, it is the result andproof of the digestive organs being healthy and perfect. Morally, itshows implicit resignation to the commands of Nature, who, in orderingman to eat that he may live, gives him appetite to invite, flavor toencourage, and pleasure to reward. 

From the political economist's point of view, the love of good living isa tie between nations, uniting them by the interchange of variousarticles of food which are in constant use. Hence the voyage from Poleto Pole of wines, sugars, fruits, and so forth. What else sustains thehope and emulation of that crowd of fishermen, huntsmen, gardeners, andothers who daily stock the most sumptuous larders with the results oftheir skill and labor? What else supports the industrious army of cooks, pastry-cooks, confectioners, and many other food-preparers, with alltheir various assistants? These various branches of industry derivetheir support in a great measure from the largest incomes, but they alsorely upon the daily wants of all classes. 

As society is at present constituted, it is almost impossible toconceive of a race living solely on bread and vegetables. Such a nationwould infallibly be conquered by the armies of some flesh-eating race(like the Hindoos, who have been the prey of all those, one afteranother, who cared to attack them), or else it would be converted by thecooking of the neighboring nations, as ancient history records of theBoeotians, who acquired a love for good living after the battleof Leuctra. 

Good living opens out great resources for replenishing the public purse:it brings contributions to town-dues, to the custom-house, and otherindirect contributions. Everything we eat is taxed, and there is noexchequer that is not substantially supported by lovers of good living. Shall we speak of that swarm of cooks who have for ages been annuallyleaving France, to improve foreign nations in the art of good living?Most of them succeed; and in obedience to an instinct which never diesin a Frenchman's heart, bring back to their country the fruits of theireconomy. The sum thus imported is greater than might be supposed, andtherefore they, like the others, will be honored by posterity. 

But if nations were grateful, then Frenchmen, above all other races, ought to raise a temple and altars to "Gourmandise. " By the treaty ofNovember, 1815, the allies imposed upon France the condition of payingthirty millions sterling in three years, besides claims for compensationand various requisitions, amounting to nearly as much more. Theapprehension, or rather certainty, became general that a nationalbankruptcy must ensue, more especially as the money was to be paidin specie. 

"Alas!" said all who had anything to lose, as they saw the fataltumbril pass to be filled in the Rue Vivienne, "there is our moneyemigrating in a lump; next year we shall fall on our knees before acrown-piece; we are about to fall into the condition of a ruined man;speculations of every kind will fail; it will be impossible to borrow;there will be nothing but weakness, exhaustion, civil death. "

These terrors were proved false by the result; and to the greatastonishment of all engaged in financial matters, the payments were madewithout difficulty, credit rose, loans were eagerly caught at, andduring all the time this "superpurgation" lasted, the balance ofexchange was in favor of France. In other words, more money came intothe country than went out of it. 

What is the power that came to our assistance? Who is the divinity thatworked this miracle? The love of good living. 

When the Britons, Germans, Teutons, Cimmerians, and Scythians made theirirruption into France, they brought a rare voracity, and stomachs of noordinary capacity. They did not long remain satisfied with the officialcheer which a forced hospitality had to supply them with. They aspiredto enjoyments of greater refinement; and soon the Queen City was nothingbut a huge refectory. Everywhere they were seen eating, thoseintruders--in the restaurants, the eating-houses, the inns, the taverns, the stalls, and even in the streets. They gorged themselves with flesh, fish, game, truffles, pastry, and especially with fruit. They drank withan avidity equal to their appetite, and always ordered the mostexpensive wines, in the hope of finding in them some enjoyment hithertounknown, and seemed quite astonished when they were disappointed. Superficial observers did not know what to think of this menageriewithout bounds or limits; but your genuine Parisian laughed and rubbedhis hands. "We have them now!" said he; "and to-night they'll have paidus back more than was counted out to them this morning from the publictreasury!"

That was a lucky time for those who provide for the enjoyments of thesense of taste. Véry made his fortune; Achard laid the foundation ofhis; Beauvilliers made a third; and Madame Sullot, whose shop in thePalais Royal was a mere box of a place, sold as many as twelve thousandtarts a day. 

The effect still lasts. Foreigners flow in from all quarters of Europeto renew during peace the delightful habits which they contractedduring the war. They must come to Paris, and when they are there, theymust be regaled at any price. If our funds are in favor, it is due notso much to the higher interest they pay, as to the instinctiveconfidence which foreigners cannot help placing in a people amongst whomevery lover of good living finds so much happiness. 

Love of good living is by no means unbecoming in women. It agrees withthe delicacy of their organization, and serves as a compensation forsome pleasures which they are obliged to abstain from, and for somehardships to which nature seems to have condemned them. There is no morepleasant sight than a pretty _gourmande_ under arms. Her napkin isnicely adjusted; one of her hands rests on the table, the other carriesto her mouth little morsels artistically carved, or the wing of apartridge which must be picked. Her eyes sparkle, her lips are glossy, her talk is cheerful, all her movements graceful; nor is there lackingsome spice of the coquetry which accompanies all that women do. With somany advantages, she is irresistible, and Cato the Censor himself couldnot help yielding to the influence. 

The love of good living is in some sort instinctive in women, because itis favorable to beauty. It has been proved, by a series of rigorouslyexact observations, that by a succulent, delicate, and choice regimen, the external appearances of age are kept away for a long time. It givesmore brilliancy to the eye, more freshness to the skin, more support tothe muscles; and as it is certain in physiology that wrinkles, thoseformidable enemies of beauty, are caused by the depression of muscle, itis equally true that, other things being equal, those who understandeating are comparatively four years younger than those ignorant of thatscience. Painters and sculptors are deeply impenetrated with this truth;for in representing those who practice abstinence by choice or duty asmisers or anchorites, they always give them the pallor of disease, theleanness of misery, and the wrinkles of decrepitude. 

Good living is one of the main links of society, by gradually extendingthat spirit of conviviality by which different classes are daily broughtcloser together and welded into one whole; by animating theconversation, and rounding off the angles of conventional inequality. Tothe same cause we can also ascribe all the efforts a host makes toreceive his guests properly, as well as their gratitude for his pains sowell bestowed. What disgrace should ever be heaped upon those senselessfeeders who, with unpardonable indifference, swallow down morsels ofthe rarest quality, or gulp with unrighteous carelessness somefine-flavored and sparkling wine. 

As a general maxim: Whoever shows a desire to please will be certain ofhaving a delicate compliment paid him by every well-bred man. 

Again, when shared, the love of good living has the most markedinfluence on the happiness of the conjugal state. A wedded pair withthis taste in common have once a day at least a pleasant opportunity ofmeeting. For even when they sleep apart (and a great many do so), theyat least eat at the same table, they have a subject of conversationwhich is ever new, they speak not only of what they are eating, but alsoof what they have eaten or will eat, of dishes which are in vogue, ofnovelties, etc. Everybody knows that a familiar chat is delightful. 

Music, no doubt, has powerful attractions for those who are fond of it, but one must set about it--it is an exertion. Besides, one sometimes hasa cold, the music is mislaid, the instruments are out of tune, one has afit of the blues, or it is a forbidden day. Whereas, in the other case, a common want summons the spouses to table, the same inclination keepsthem there; they naturally show each other these little attentions as aproof of their wish to oblige, and the mode of conducting their mealshas a great share in the happiness of their lives. 

This observation, though new in France, has not escaped the notice ofRichardson, the English moralist. He has worked out the idea in hisnovel 'Pamela, ' by painting the different manner in which two marriedcouples finish their day. The first husband is a lord, an eldest son, and therefore heir to all the family property; the second is his youngerbrother, the husband of Pamela, who has been disinherited on account ofhis marriage, and lives on half-pay in a state but little removed fromabject poverty. 

The lord and lady enter their dining-room by different doors, and saluteeach other coldly, though they have not met the whole day before. Sitting down at a table which is magnificently covered, surrounded bylackeys in brilliant liveries, they help themselves in silence, and eatwithout pleasure. As soon, however, as the servants have withdrawn, asort of conversation is begun between the pair, which quickly shows abitter tone, passing into a regular fight, and they rise from the tablein a fury of anger, and go off to their separate apartments to reflectupon the pleasures of a single life. 

The younger brother, on the contrary, is, on reaching his unpretentioushome, received with a gentle, loving heartiness and the fondestcaresses. He sits down to a frugal meal, but everything he eats isexcellent; and how could it be otherwise? It is Pamela herself who hasprepared it all. They eat with enjoyment, talking of their affairs, their plans, their love for each other. A half-bottle of Madeira servesto prolong their repast and conversation, and soon after they retiretogether, to forget in sleep their present hardships, and to dream of abetter future. 

All honor to the love of good living, such as it is the purpose of thisbook to describe, so long as it does not come between men and theiroccupations or duties! For, as all the debaucheries of a Sardanapaluscannot bring disrespect upon womankind in general, so the excesses of aVitellius need not make us turn our backs upon a well-appointed banquet. Should the love of good living pass into gluttony, voracity, intemperance, it then loses its name and advantages, escapes from ourjurisdiction, and falls within that of the moralist to ply it with goodcounsel, or of the physician who will cure it by his remedies. 

ON PEOPLE FOND OF GOOD LIVING

There are individuals to whom nature has denied a refinement of organs, or a continuity of attention, without which the most succulent dishespass unobserved. Physiology has already recognized the first of thesevarieties, by showing us the tongue of these unhappy ones, badlyfurnished with nerves for inhaling and appreciating flavors. Theseexcite in them but an obtuse sentiment; such persons are, with regard toobjects of taste, what the blind are with regard to light. The secondclass are the absent-minded, chatterboxes, persons engrossed in businessor ambition, and others who seek to occupy themselves with two things atonce, and eat only to be filled. Such, for example, was Napoleon; he wasirregular in his meals, and ate fast and badly. But there again was tobe traced that absolute will which he carried into everything he did. The moment appetite was felt, it was necessary that it should besatisfied; and his establishment was so arranged that, in any place andat any hour, chicken, cutlets, and coffee might be forthcoming ata word. 

There is a privileged class of persons who are summoned to theenjoyments of taste by a physical and organic predisposition. I havealways believed in physiognomy and phrenology. Men have inborntendencies; and since there are some who come into the world seeing, hearing, and walking badly, because they are short-sighted, deaf, orcrippled, why should there not be others who are specially predisposedto experience a certain series of sensations? Moreover, even anordinary observer will constantly discover faces which bear theunmistakable imprint of a ruling passion--such as superciliousness, self-satisfaction, misanthropy, sensuality, and many others. Sometimes, no doubt, we meet with a face that expresses nothing; but when thephysiognomy has a marked stamp it is almost always a true index. Thepassions act upon the muscles, and frequently, although a man saysnothing, the various feelings by which he is moved can be read in hisface. By this tension, if in the slightest degree habitual, perceptibletraces are at last left, and the physiognomy thus assumes its permanentand recognizable characteristics. 

Those predisposed to epicurism are for the most part of middling height. They are broad-faced, and have bright eyes, small forehead, short nose, fleshy lips, and rounded chin. The women are plump, chubby, prettyrather than beautiful, with a slight tendency to fullness of figure. Itis under such an exterior that we must look for agreeable guests. Theyaccept all that is offered them, eat without hurry, and taste withdiscrimination. They never make any haste to get away from houses wherethey have been well treated, but stay for the evening, because they knowall the games and other after-dinner amusements. 

Those, on the contrary, to whom nature has denied an aptitude for theenjoyments of taste, are long-faced, long-nosed, and long-eyed: whatevertheir stature, they have something lanky about them. They have dark, lanky hair, and are never in good condition. It was one of them whoinvented trousers. The women whom nature has afflicted with the samemisfortune are angular, feel themselves bored at table, and live oncards and scandal. 

This theory of mine can be verified by each reader from his own personalobservation. I shall give an instance from my own personal experience:--

Sitting one day at a grand banquet, I had opposite me a very prettyneighbor, whose face showed the predisposition I have described. Leaning to the guest beside me, I said quietly that from herphysiognomy, the young lady on the other side of the table must be fondof good eating. "You must be mad!" he answered; "she is but fifteen atmost, which is certainly not the age for such a thing. However, letus watch. "

At first, things were by no means in my favor, and I was somewhat afraidof having compromised myself, for during the first two courses the younglady quite astonished me by her discretion, and I suspected we hadstumbled upon an exception, remembering that there are some for everyrule. But at last the dessert came, --a dessert both magnificent andabundant, --and my hopes were again revived. Nor did I hope in vain: notonly did she eat of all that was offered her, but she even got dishesbrought to her from the farthest parts of the table. In a word, shetasted everything, and my neighbor at last expressed his astonishmentthat the little stomach could hold so many things. Thus was my diagnosisverified, and once again science triumphed. 

Whilst I was writing the above, on a fine winter's evening, M. Cartier, formerly the first violinist at the Opera, paid me a visit, and sat downat the fireside. Being full of my subject, I said, after looking at himattentively for some time, "How does it happen, my dear professor, thatyou are no epicure, when you have all the features of one?" "I was one, "he replied, "and among the foremost; but now I refrain. " "On principle, I suppose?" said I; but all the answer I had was a sigh, like one of SirWalter Scott's--that is to say, almost a groan. 

As some are gourmands by predestination, so others become so by theirstate in society or their calling. There are four classes which I shouldsignalize by way of eminence: the moneyed class, the doctors, men ofletters, and the devout. 

Inequality of condition implies inequality of wealth, but inequality ofwealth does not imply inequality of wants; and he who can afford everyday a dinner sufficient for a hundred persons is often satisfied byeating the thigh of a chicken. Hence the necessity for the many devicesof art to reanimate that ghost of an appetite by dishes which maintainit without injury, and caress without stifling it. 

The causes which act upon doctors are very different, though not lesspowerful. They become epicures in spite of themselves, and must be madeof bronze to resist the seductive power of circumstances. The "deardoctor" is all the more kindly welcomed that health is the most preciousof boons; and thus they are always waited for with impatience andreceived with eagerness. Some are kind to them from hope, others fromgratitude. They are fed like pet pigeons. They let things take theircourse, and in six months the habit is confirmed, and they are gourmandspast redemption. 

I ventured one day to express this opinion at a banquet in which, witheight others, I took a part, with Dr. Corvisart at the head of thetable. It was about the year 1806. 

"You!" cried I, with the inspired tone of a Puritan preacher; "you arethe last remnant of a body which formerly covered the whole of France. Alas! its members are annihilated or widely scattered. No more_fermiers-généraux_, no abbés nor knights nor white-coated friars. Themembers of your profession constitute the whole gastronomic body. Sustain with firmness that great responsibility, even if you must sharethe fate of the three hundred Spartans at the Pass of Thermopylae. "

At the same dinner I observed the following noteworthy fact. The doctor, who, when in the mood, was a most agreeable companion, drank nothing buticed champagne; and therefore in the earlier part of the dinner, whilstothers were engaged in eating, he kept talking loudly and tellingstories. But at dessert, on the contrary, and when the generalconversation began to be lively, he became serious, silent, andsometimes low-spirited. 

From this observation, confirmed by many others, I have deduced thefollowing theorem:--"Champagne, though at first exhilarating, ultimatelyproduces stupefying effects;" a result, moreover, which is a well-knowncharacteristic of the carbonic acid which it contains. 

Whilst I have the university doctors under my grasp, I must, before Idie, reproach them with the extreme severity which they use towardstheir patients. As soon as one has the misfortune to fall into theirhands, he must undergo a whole litany of prohibitions, and give upeverything that he is accustomed to think agreeable. I rise up to opposesuch interdictions, as being for the most part useless. I say useless, because the patient never longs for what is hurtful. A doctor ofjudgment will never lose sight of the instinctive tendency of ourinclinations, or forget that if painful sensations are naturally fraughtwith danger, those which are pleasant have a healthy tendency. We haveseen a drop of wine, a cup of coffee, or a thimbleful of liqueur, callup a smile to the most Hippocratic face. 

Those severe prescribers must, moreover, know very well that theirprescriptions remain almost always without result. The patient tries toevade the duty of taking them; those about him easily find a good excusefor humoring him, and thus his death is neither hastened nor retarded. In 1815 the medical allowance of a sick Russian would have made adrayman drunk, and that of an Englishman was enough for a Limousin. Norwas any diminution possible, for there were military inspectorsconstantly going round our hospitals to examine the supply and theconsumption. 

I am the more confident in announcing my opinion because it is basedupon numerous facts, and the most successful practitioners have used asystem closely resembling it. 

Canon Rollet, who died some fifty years ago, was a hard drinker, according to the custom of those days. He fell ill, and the doctor'sfirst words were a prohibition of wine in any form. On his very nextvisit, however, our physician found beside the bed of his patient the_corpus delicti_ itself, to wit, a table covered with a snow-whitecloth, a crystal cup, a handsome-looking bottle, and a napkin to wipethe lips. At this sight he flew into a violent passion and spoke ofleaving the house, when the wretched canon cried to him in tones oflamentation, "Ah, doctor, remember that in forbidding me to drink, youhave not forbidden me the pleasure of looking at the bottle!"

The physician who treated Montlusin of Pont de Veyle was still moresevere, for not only did he forbid the use of wine to his patient, butalso prescribed large doses of water. Shortly after the doctor'sdeparture, Madame Montlusin, anxious to give full effect to the medicalorders and assist in the recovery of her husband's health, offered him alarge glass of the finest and clearest water. The patient took it withdocility, and began to drink it with resignation; but stopping short atthe first mouthful, he handed back the glass to his wife. "Take it, mydear, " said he, "and keep it for another time; I have always heard itsaid that we should not trifle with remedies. "

In the domain of gastronomy the men of letters are near neighbors to thedoctors. A hundred years ago literary men were all hard drinkers. Theyfollowed the fashion, and the memoirs of the period are quite edifyingon that subject. At the present day they are gastronomes, and it is astep in the right direction. I by no means agree with the cynicalGeoffroy, who used to say that if our modern writings are weak, it isbecause literary men now drink nothing stronger than lemonade. Thepresent age is rich in talents, and the very number of books probablyinterferes with their proper appreciation; but posterity, being morecalm and judicial, will see amongst them much to admire, just as weourselves have done justice to the masterpieces of Racine and Molière, which were received by their contemporaries with coldness. 

Never has the social position of men of letters been more pleasant thanat present. They no longer live in wretched garrets; the fields ofliterature are become more fertile, and even the study of the Muses hasbecome productive. Received on an equality in any rank of life, they nolonger wait for patronage; and to fill up their cup of happiness, goodliving bestows upon them its dearest favors. Men of letters are invitedbecause of the good opinion men have of their talents; because theirconversation has, generally speaking, something piquant in it, and alsobecause now every dinner-party must as a matter of course have itsliterary man. 

Those gentlemen always arrive a little late, but are welcomed, becauseexpected. They are treated as favorites so that they may come again, andregaled that they may shine; and as they find all this very natural, bybeing accustomed to it they become, are, and remain gastronomes. 

Finally, amongst the most faithful in the ranks of gastronomy we mustreckon many of the devout--i. E. , those spoken of by Louis XIV. AndMolière, whose religion consists in outward show;--nothing to do withthose who are really pious and charitable. 

Let us consider how this comes about. Of those who wish to secure theirsalvation, the greater number try to find the most pleasant road. Menwho flee from society, sleep on the ground, and wear hair-cloth next theskin, have always been, and must ever be, exceptions. Now there arecertain things unquestionably to be condemned, and on no account to beindulged in--as balls, theatres, gambling, and other similar amusements;and whilst they and all that practice them are to be hated, good livingpresents itself insinuatingly in a thoroughly orthodox guise. 

By right divine, man is king of nature, and all that the earth produceswas created for him. It is for him that the quail is fattened, for himthat Mocha possesses so agreeable an aroma, for him that sugar has suchwholesome properties. How then neglect to use, within reasonable limits, the good things which Providence presents to us; especially if wecontinue to regard them as things that perish with the using, especiallyif they raise our thankfulness towards the Author of all!

Other equally strong reasons come to strengthen these. Can we be toohospitable in receiving those who have charge of our souls, and keep usin the way of safety? Should those meetings with so excellent an objectnot be made pleasant, and therefore frequent?

Sometimes, also, the gifts of Comus arrive unsought--perhaps a souvenirof college days, a present from an old friend, a peace-offering from apenitent or a college chum recalling himself to one's memory. How refuseto accept such offerings, or to make systematic use of them? It issimply a necessity. 

The monasteries were real magazines of charming dainties, which is onereason why certain connoisseurs so bitterly regret them. Several of themonastic orders, especially that of St. Bernard, made a profession ofgood cheer. The limits of gastronomic art have been extended by thecooks of the clergy, and when M. De Pressigni (afterwards Archbishop ofBesançon) returned from the Conclave at the election of Pius VI. , hesaid that the best dinner he had had in Rome was at the table of thehead of the Capuchins. 

We cannot conclude this article better than by honorably mentioning twoclasses of men whom we have seen in all their glory, and whom theRevolution has eclipsed--the chevaliers and the abbés. How they enjoyedgood living, those dear old fellows! That could be told at a glance bytheir nervous nostrils, their clear eyes, their moist lips and mobiletongues. Each class had at the same time its own special manner ofeating: the chevalier having something military and dignified in his airand attitude; while the abbé gathered himself together, as it were, tobe nearer his plate, with his right hand curved inward like the paw of acat drawing chestnuts from the fire, whilst in every feature was shownenjoyment and an indefinable look of close attention. 

So far from good living being hurtful to health, it has beenarithmetically proved by Dr. Villermé in an able paper read before theAcadémie des Sciences, that other things being equal, the gourmands livelonger than ordinary men. 

CHARLOTTE BRONTÉ AND HER SISTERS

(1816-1855)

The least that can be said of Charlotte Bronté is that she is a uniquefigure in literature. Nowhere else do we find another personalitycombining such extraordinary qualities of mind and heart, --qualitiesstrangely contrasted, but still more strangely harmonized. At times theyare baffling, but always fascinating. Nowhere else do we find sointimate an association of the personality of the author with the work, so thorough an identification with it of the author's life, even to thesmaller details. So true is this in the case of Charlotte Bronté thatthe four novels 'Jane Eyre, ' 'Shirley, ' 'Villette, ' and 'The Professor'might with some justice be termed 'Charlotte Bronté; her life and herfriends. ' Her works were in large part an expression of herself; attimes the best expression of herself--of her actual self in experienceand of her spiritual self in travail and in aspiration. It is manifestlyimpossible therefore to consider the works of Charlotte Bronté withjustice apart from herself. A correct understanding of her books can beobtained only from a study of her remarkable personality and of the sadcircumstances of her life. 

Public interest in Charlotte Bronté was first roused in 1847. In Octoberof that year there appeared in London a novel that created a sensation, the like of which had not been known since the publication of'Waverley. ' Its stern and paradoxical disregard for the conventional, its masculine energy, and its intense realism, startled the public, andproclaimed to all in accents unmistakable that a new, strange, andsplendid power had come into literature, "but yet a woman. "

And with the success of 'Jane Eyre' came a lively curiosity to knowsomething of the personality of the author. This was not gratified forsome time. There were many conjectures, all of them far amiss. Themajority of readers asserted confidently that the work must be that of aman; the touch was unmistakably masculine. In some quarters it met withhearty abuse. The Quarterly Review, in an article still notorious forits brutality, condemned the book as coarse, and stated that if 'JaneEyre' were really written by a woman, she must be an improper woman, whohad forfeited the society of her sex. This was said in December, 1848, of one of the noblest and purest of womankind. It is not a matter ofsurprise that the identity of this audacious speculator was notrevealed. The recent examination into the topic by Mr. Clement Shorterseems, however, to fix the authorship of the notice on Lady Eastlake, atthat time Miss Driggs. 

But hostile criticism of the book and its mysterious author could notinjure its popularity. The story swept all before it--press and public. Whatever might be the source, the work stood there and spoke for itselfin commanding terms. At length the mystery was cleared. A shrewdYorkshireman guessed and published the truth, and the curious world knewthat the author of 'Jane Eyre' was the daughter of a clergyman in thelittle village of Haworth, and that the literary sensation of the dayfound its source in a nervous, shrinking, awkward, plain, delicate youngcreature of thirty-one years of age, whose life, with the exception oftwo years, had been spent on the bleak and dreary moorlands ofYorkshire, and for the most part in the narrow confines of a grim graystone parsonage. There she had lived a pinched and meagre little life, full of sadness and self-denial, with two sisters more delicate thanherself, a dissolute brother, and a father her only parent, --a stern andforbidding father. This was no genial environment for an author, even ifhelpful to her vivid imagination. Nor was it a temporary condition; itwas a permanent one. Nearly all the influences in Charlotte Bronté'slife were such as these, which would seem to cramp if not to stiflesensitive talent. Her brother Branwell (physically weaker than herself, though unquestionably talented, and for a time the idol and hope of thefamily) became dissipated, irresponsible, untruthful, and ane'er-do-weel, and finally yielding to circumstances, ended miserably alife of failure. 

But Charlotte Bronté's nature was one of indomitable courage, thatcircumstances might shadow but could not obscure. Out of the meagreelements of her narrow life she evolved works that stand among theimperishable things of English literature. It is a paradox that findsits explanation only in a statement of natural sources, primitive, bardic, the sources of the early epics, the sources of such epics asCædmon and Beowulf bore. She wrote from a sort of necessity; it was inobedience to the commanding authority of an extraordinary genius, --acreative power that struggled for expression, --and much of her workdeserves in the best and fullest sense the term "inspired. "

[Illustration: Charlotte Bronté]

The facts of her life are few in number, but they have a direct andsignificant bearing on her work. She was born at Thornton, in the parishof Bradford, in 1816. Four years later her father moved to Haworth, tothe parsonage now indissolubly associated with her name, and there Mr. Bronté entered upon a long period of pastorate service, that onlyended with his death. Charlotte's mother was dead. In 1824 Charlotte andtwo older sisters, Maria and Elizabeth, went to a school at Cowan'sBridge. It was an institution for clergymen's children, a vivid pictureof which appears in 'Jane Eyre. ' It was so badly managed and the foodwas so poor that many of the children fell sick, among them MariaBronté, who died in 1825. Elizabeth followed her a few months later, andCharlotte returned to Haworth, where she remained for six years, thenwent to school at Roe Head for a period of three years. She was offeredthe position of teacher by Miss Wooler, the principal at Roe Head, butconsidering herself unfit to teach, she resolved to go to Brussels tostudy French. She spent two years there, and it was there that herintimate and misconstrued friendship for M. Heger developed. Theincidents of that period formed the material of a greater portion of hernovel 'Villette, ' filled twenty-two volumes of from sixty to one hundredpages of fine writing, and consisted of some forty complete novelettesor other stories and childish "magazines. "

On returning to Haworth, she endeavored, together with her sister Emily, to establish a school at their home. But pupils were not to be had, andthe outlook was discouraging. Two periods of service as governess, andthe ill health that had followed, had taught Charlotte the danger thatthreatened her. Her experiences as a governess in the Sedgwick familywere pictured by-and-by in 'Jane Eyre. ' In a letter to Miss EllenNussey, written at this time, she gives a dark vignette of hersituation. 

With her two sisters Emily and Anne she lived a quiet and retired life. The harsh realities about them, the rough natures of the Yorkshirepeople, impelled the three sisters to construct in their home an idealworld of their own, and in this their pent-up natures found expression. Their home was lonely and gloomy. Mr. Clement K. Shorter, in his recentstudy of the novelist and her family, says that the house is much thesame to-day, though its immediate surroundings are brightened. He writes:

"One day Emily confided to Charlotte that she had written some verses. Charlotte answered with a similar confidence, and then Anne acknowledgedthat she too had been secretly writing. This mutual confession broughtabout a complete understanding and sympathy, and from that time on thesisters worked together--reading their literary productions to oneanother and submitting to each other's criticism. "

This was however by no means Charlotte's first literary work. She hasleft a catalogue of books written by her between 1829 and 1830. Herfirst printed work however appeared in a volume of 'Poems' by Acton, Ellis, and Currer Bell, published in 1846 at the expense of the authors. Under these names the little book of the Bronté sisters went forth tothe world, was reviewed with mild favor in some few periodicals, and waslost to sight. 

Then came a period of novel-writing. As a result, Emily Bronté's'Wuthering Heights, ' Anne Bronté's 'Agnes Grey, ' and Charlotte Bronté's'The Professor' set out together to find a publisher. The last-named wasunsuccessful; but on the day it was returned to her, Charlotte Brontébegan writing 'Jane Eyre. ' That first masterpiece was shaped during aperiod of sorrow and discouragement. Her father was ill and in danger oflosing his eyesight. Her brother Bran well was sinking into the sloughof disgrace. No wonder 'Jane Eyre' is not a story of sunshine and roses. She finished the story in 1847, and it was accepted by the publisherspromptly upon examination. 

After its publication and the sensation produced, Charlotte Brontécontinued her literary work quietly, and unaffected by the furore shehad aroused. A few brief visits to London, where attempts were made tolionize her, --very much to her distaste, --a few literary friendships, notably those with Thackeray, George Henry Lewes, Mrs. Gaskell, andHarriet Martineau, were the only features that distinguished herliterary life from the simple life she had always led and continued tolead at Haworth. She was ever busy, if not ever at her desk. Success hadcome; she was sane in the midst of it. She wrote slowly and only as shefelt the impulse, and when she knew she had found the proper impression. In 1849 'Shirley' was published. In 1853 appeared 'Villette, ' her lastfinished work, and the one considered by herself the best. 

In 1854 she married her father's curate, Mr. A. B. Nicholls. She had losther brother Branwell and her two sisters Emily and Anne. Sorrow uponsorrow had closed like deepening shadows about her. All happiness inlife for her had apparently ended, when this marriage brought a briefray of sunshine. It was a happy union, and seemed to assure a period ofpeace and rest for the sorely tried soul. Only a few short months, however, and fate, as if grudging her even the bit of happiness, snappedthe slender threads of her life and the whole sad episode of herexistence was ended. She died March 31st, 1855, leaving her husband andfather to mourn together in the lonely parsonage. She left a literaryfragment--the story entitled 'Emma, ' which was published with anintroduction by Thackeray. 

Such are the main facts of this reserved life of Charlotte Bronté. Arethey dull and commonplace? Some of them are indeed inexpressibly sad. Tragedy is beneath all the bitter chronicle. The sadness of her days canbe appreciated by all who read her books. Through all her stories thereis an intense note, especially in treating the pathos of existence, thatis unmistakably subjective. There is a keen perception of the darkerdepths of human nature that could have been revealed to a human heartonly by suffering and sorrow. 

She did not allow sadness, however, to crush her spirit. She was neithermorbid nor melancholy, but on the contrary Charlotte was cheerful andpleasant in disposition and manner. She was a loving sister and devoteddaughter, patient and obedient to a parent who afterwards made obediencea severe hardship. There were other sides to her character. She was notalways calm. She was not ever tender and a maker of allowances. But whois such? And she had good reason to be impatient with the world asshe found it. 

Her character and disposition are partially reflected in 'Jane Eyre. 'The calm, clear mind, the brave, independent spirit are there. But afuller and more accurate picture of her character may be found in LucySnowe, the heroine of 'Villette. ' Here we find especially that note ofhopelessness that predominated in Charlotte's character. Mrs. Gaskell, in her admirable biography of Charlotte Bronté, has called attention tothis absence of hope in her nature. Charlotte indeed never allowedherself to look forward to happy issues. She had no confidence in thefuture. The pressure of grief apparently crushed all buoyancy ofexpectation. It was in this attitude that when literary success greetedher, she made little of it, scarcely allowing herself to believe thatthe world really set a high value on her work. Throughout all theexcitement that her books produced, she was almost indifferent. Broughtup as she had been to regard literary work as something beyond theproper limits of her sex, she never could quite rid herself of thebelief that in writing successfully, she had made of herself not so mucha literary figure as a sort of social curiosity. Nor was that ideawholly foreign to her time. 

Personally Charlotte Bronté was not unattractive. Though somewhat tooslender and pale, and plain of feature, she had a pleasant expression, and her homelier features were redeemed by a strong massive forehead, luxuriant glossy hair, and handsome eyes. Though she had little faith inher powers of inspiring affection, she attracted people strongly and waswell beloved by her friends. That she could stir romantic sentiment toowas attested by the fact that she received and rejected three proposalsof marriage from as many suitors, before her acceptance of Mr. Nicholls. 

Allusion has been made to the work of Charlotte's two sisters, Emily andAnne. Of the two Emily is by far the more remarkable, revealing in thesingle novel we have from her pen a genius as distinct and individual asthat of her more celebrated sister. Had she lived, it is more thanlikely that her literary achievements would have rivaled Charlotte's. 

Emily Bronté has always been something of a puzzle to biographers. Shewas eccentric, an odd mixture of bashful reserve and unexpected spellsof frankness, sweet, gentle, and retiring in disposition, but possessedof great courage. She was two years younger than Charlotte, but taller. She was slender, though well formed, and was pale in complexion, withgreat gray eyes of remarkable beauty. Emily's literary work is to befound in the volume of "Poems" of her sisters, her share in that workbeing considered superior in imaginative quality and in finish to thatof the others; and in the novel "Wuthering Heights, " a weird, horridstory of astonishing power, written when she was twenty-eight years ofage. Considered purely as an imaginative work, "Wuthering Heights" isone of the most remarkable stories in English literature, and is worthyto be ranked with the works of Edgar A. Poe. Many will say that it mightbetter not have been written, so utterly repulsive is it, but otherswill value it as a striking, though distorted, expression ofunmistakable genius. It is a ghastly and gruesome creation. Not onebright ray redeems it. It deals with the most evil characters and themost evil phases of human experience. But it fascinates. Heathcliff, thechief figure in the book, is one of the greatest villains infiction, --an abhorrent creature, --strange, monstrous, Frankensteinesque. 

Anne Bronté is known by her share in the book of "Poems" and by twonovels, "Agnes Gray" and "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, " both of whichare disappointing. The former is based on the author's experiences as agoverness, and is written in the usual placid style of romances of thetime. "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall" found its suggestion in the wretchedcareer of Branwell Bronté, and presents a sad and depressing picture ofa life of degradation. The book was not a success, and would no doubthave sunk long ago into oblivion but for its association with the novelsof Emily and Charlotte. 

In studying the work of Charlotte Bronté, the gifted older sister of thegroup, one of the first of the qualities that impress the reader is heractual creative power. To one of her imaginative power, the simplestlife was sufficient, the smallest details a fund of material. Mr. Swinburne has called attention to the fact that Charlotte Bronté'scharacters are individual creations, not types constructed out ofelements gathered from a wide observation of human nature, and that theyare _real_ creations; that they compel our interest and command ourassent because they are true, inevitably true. Perhaps no better exampleof this individualism could be cited than Rochester. The character isunique. It is not a type, nor has it even a prototype, like so many ofCharlotte Bronté's characters. Gossip insisted at one time that theauthor intended to picture Thackeray in Rochester, but this isgroundless. Rochester is an original creation. The character of JaneEyre, too, while reflecting something of the author's nature, wasdistinctly individual; and it is interesting to note here that with JaneEyre came a new heroine into fiction, a woman of calm, clear reason, offirm positive character, and what was most novel, a plain woman, ahomely heroine. 

"Why is it, " Charlotte had once said, "that heroines must always bebeautiful?" The hero of romance was always noble and handsome, theheroine lovely and often insipid, and the scenes set in an atmosphere ofexaggerated idealism. Against this idealism Charlotte Bronté revolted. Her effort was always toward realism. 

In her realism she reveals a second characteristic scarcely less markedthan her creative powers, --an extraordinary faculty of observation. Shesaw the essence, the spirit of things, and the simplest details of liferevealed to her the secrets of human nature. What she had herself seenand felt--the plain rugged types of Yorkshire character, the wildscenery of the moorlands--she reflected with living truth. She got thereal fact out of every bit of material in humanity and nature that hersimple life afforded her. And where her experience could not afford herthe necessary material, she drew upon some mysterious resources in hernature, which were apparently not less reliable than actual experience. On being asked once how she could describe so accurately the effects ofopium as she does in 'Villette, ' she replied that she knew nothing ofopium, but that she had followed the process she always adopted in casesof this kind. She had thought intently on the matter for many a nightbefore falling asleep; till at length, after some time, she waked in themorning with all clear before her, just as if she had actually gonethrough the experience, and then could describe it word for word asit happened. 

Her sensitiveness to impressions of nature was exceedingly keen. She hadwhat Swinburne calls "an instinct for the tragic use of landscape. " Byconstant and close observation during her walks she had established afellowship with nature in all her phases; learning her secrets from thevoices of the night, from the whisper of the trees, and from the eeriemoaning of the moorland blasts. She studied the cold sky, and hadwatched the "coming night-clouds trailing low like banners drooping. "

Other qualities that distinguish her work are purity, depth and ardor ofpassion, and spiritual force and fervor. Her genius was lofty and noble, and an exalted moral quality predominates in her stories. She wasethical as sincerely as she was emotional. 

We have only to consider her technique, in which she ischaracteristically original. This originality is noticeable especiallyin her use of words. There is a sense of fitness that often surprisesthe reader. Words at times in her hands reveal a new power andsignificance. In the choice of words Charlotte Bronté was scrupulous. She believed that there was just one word fit to express the idea orshade of meaning she wished to convey, and she never admitted asubstitute, sometimes waiting days until the right word came. Herexpressions are therefore well fitted and forcible. Though thepredominant key is a serious one, there is nevertheless considerablehumor in Charlotte Bronté's work. In 'Shirley' especially we find manyhappy scenes, and much wit in repartee. And yet, with all these merits, one will find at times her style to be lame, stiff, and crude, and evenwhen strongest, occasionally coarse. Not infrequently she ismelodramatic and sensational. But through it all there is that pervadingsense of reality and it redeems these defects. 

Of the unusual, the improbable, the highly colored in Charlotte Bronté'sbooks we shall say little. In criticizing works so true to life andnature as these, one should not be hasty. We feel the presence of aseer. Some one once made an objection in Charlotte Bronté's presence tothat part of 'Jane Eyre' in which she hears Rochester's voice calling toher at a great crisis in her life, he being many miles distant from herat the time. Charlotte caught her breath and replied in a lowvoice:--"But it is a true thing; it really happened. " And so it might besaid of Charlotte Bronté's work as a whole:--"It is a true thing; itreally happened. "

JANE EYRE'S WEDDING DAY

From 'Jane Eyre'

Sophie came at seven to dress me. She was very long indeed inaccomplishing her task; so long that Mr. Rochester--grown, I suppose, impatient of my delay--sent up to ask why I did not come. She was justfastening my veil (the plain square of blonde, after all) to my hairwith a brooch; I hurried from under her hands as soon as I could. 

"Stop!" she cried in French, "Look at yourself in the mirror; you havenot taken one peep. "

So I turned at the door. I saw a robed and veiled figure, so unlike myusual self that it seemed almost the image of a stranger. 

"Jane!" called a voice, and I hastened down. I was received at the footof the stairs by Mr. Rochester. "Lingerer, " he said, "my brain is onfire with impatience; and you tarry so long!"

He took me into the dining-room, surveyed me keenly all over, pronouncedme "fair as a lily, and not only the pride of his life, but the desireof his eyes"; and then, telling me he would give me but ten minutes toeat some breakfast, he rang the bell. One of his lately hired servants, a footman, answered it. 

"Is John getting the carriage ready?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Is the luggage brought down?"

"They are bringing it down, sir. "

"Go you to the church; see if Mr. Wood" (the clergyman) "and the clerkare there; return and tell me. "

The church, as the reader knows, was but just beyond the gates; thefootman soon returned. 

"Mr. Wood is in the vestry, sir, putting on his surplice. "

"And the carriage?"

"The horses are harnessing. "

"We shall not want it to go to church; but it must be ready the momentwe return--all the boxes and luggage arranged and strapped on, and thecoachman in his seat. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Jane, are you ready?"

I rose. There were no groomsmen, no bridesmaids, no relatives to waitfor or marshal; none but Mr. Rochester and I. Mrs. Fairfax stood in thehall as we passed. I would fain have spoken to her, but my hand was heldby a grasp of iron; I was hurried along by a stride I could hardlyfollow; and to look at Mr. Rochester's face was to feel that not asecond of delay would be tolerated for any purpose. I wondered whatother bridegroom ever looked as he did--so bent up to a purpose, sogrimly resolute; or who, under such steadfast brows, ever revealed suchflaming and flashing eyes. 

I know not whether the day was fair or foul; in descending the drive Igazed neither on sky nor earth; my heart was with my eyes, and bothseemed migrated into Mr. Rochester's frame. I wanted to see theinvisible thing on which, as we went along, he appeared to fasten aglance fierce and fell. I wanted to feel the thoughts whose force heseemed breasting and resisting. 

At the churchyard wicket he stopped; he discovered I was quite out ofbreath. 

"Am I cruel in my love?" he said. "Delay an instant; lean on me, Jane. "

And now I can recall the picture of the gray old house of God risingcalm before me, of a rook wheeling around the steeple, of a ruddymorning sky beyond. I remember something, too, of the greengrave-mounds; and I have not forgotten, either, two figures ofstrangers, straying among the low hillocks, and reading the mementosgraven on the few mossy headstones. I noticed them because as they sawus they passed around to the back of the church; and I doubted not theywere going to enter by the side aisle door and witness the ceremony. ByMr. Rochester they were not observed; he was earnestly looking at myface, from which the blood had, I dare say, momentarily fled; for I feltmy forehead dewy and my cheeks and lips cold. When I rallied, which Isoon did, he walked gently with me up the path to the porch. 

We entered the quiet and humble temple; the priest waited in his whitesurplice at the lowly altar, the clerk beside him. All was still; twoshadows only moved in a remote corner. My conjecture had been correct;the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vaultof the Rochesters, their backs toward us, viewing through the rails theold time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remainsof Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civilwars, and of Elizabeth his wife. 

Our place was taken at the communion-rails. Hearing a cautious stepbehind me, I glanced over my shoulder; one of the strangers--agentleman, evidently--was advancing up the chancel. The service began. The explanation of the intent of matrimony was gone through: and thenthe clergyman came a step farther forward, and bending slightly towardMr. Rochester, went on:--

"I require and charge you both (as ye will answer at the dreadful day ofjudgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed) that ifeither of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joinedtogether in matrimony, ye do now confess it; for be ye well assured thatso many as are coupled together otherwise than God's word doth allow arenot joined together by God, neither is their matrimony lawful. "

He paused, as the custom is. When is the pause after that sentence everbroken by reply? Not, perhaps, once in a hundred years. And theclergyman, who had not lifted his eyes from his book, and had held hisbreath but for a moment, was proceeding; his hand was already stretchedtoward. Mr. Rochester, as his lips unclosed to ask, "Wilt thou have thiswoman for thy wedded wife?"--when a distinct and near voice said, "Themarriage cannot go on: I declare the existence of an impediment. "

The clergyman looked up at the speaker and stood mute: the clerk did thesame; Mr. Rochester moved slightly, as if an earthquake had rolled underhis feet; taking a firmer footing, and not turning his head or eyes, hesaid, "Proceed!"

Profound silence fell when he had uttered that word, with deep but lowintonation. Presently Mr. Wood said, "I cannot proceed without someinvestigation into what has been asserted, and evidence of its truth orfalsehood. "

"The ceremony is quite broken off, " subjoined the voice behind us. "I amin a condition to prove my allegation; an insuperable impediment to thismarriage exists. "

Mr. Rochester heard, but heeded not; he stood stubborn and rigid; makingno movement but to possess himself of my hand. What a hot and stronggrasp he had!--and how like quarried marble was his pale, firm, massivefront at this moment! How his eye shone, still, watchful, and yetwild beneath!

Mr. Wood seemed at a loss. "What is the nature of the impediment?" heasked. "Perhaps it may be got over--explained away?"

"Hardly, " was the answer: "I have called it insuperable, and I speakadvisedly. "

The speaker came forward and leaned on the rails. He continued, utteringeach word distinctly, calmly, steadily, but not loudly. 

"It simply consists in the existence of a previous marriage. Mr. Rochester has a wife now living. "

My nerves vibrated to those low-spoken words as they had never vibratedto thunder; my blood felt their subtle violence as it had never feltfrost or fire; but I was collected, and in no danger of swooning. Ilooked at Mr. Rochester; I made him look at me. His whole face wascolorless rock; his eye was both spark and flint. He disavowed nothing;he seemed as if he would defy all things. Without speaking, withoutsmiling, without seeming to recognize in me a human being, he onlytwined my waist with his arm and riveted me to his side. 

"Who are you?" he asked of the intruder. 

"My name is Briggs, a solicitor of ---- Street, London. "

"And you would thrust on me a wife?"

"I would remind you of your lady's existence, sir, which the lawrecognizes if you do not. "

"Favor me with an account of her--with her name, her parentage, herplace of abode. "

"Certainly. " Mr. Briggs calmly took a paper from his pocket, and readout in a sort of official, nasal voice:--

"I affirm and can prove that on the 20th of October, A. D. --" (a date offifteen years back), "Edward Fairfax Rochester, of Thornfield Hall, inthe county of ----, and of Ferndean Manor, in ---- shire, England, wasmarried to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, daughter of Jonas Mason, merchant, and of Antoinetta his wife, a Creole, at ---- church, SpanishTown, Jamaica. The record of the marriage will be found in the registerof that church--a copy of it is now in my possession. Signed, Richard Mason. "

"That, if a genuine document, may prove I have been married, but it doesnot prove that the woman mentioned therein as my wife is still living. "

"She was living three months ago, " returned the lawyer. 

"How do you know?"

"I have a witness to the fact whose testimony even you, sir, willscarcely controvert. "

"Produce him--or go to hell!"

"I will produce him first--he is on the spot: Mr. Mason, have thegoodness to step forward. "

Mr. Rochester, on hearing the name, set his teeth: he experienced, too, a sort of strong convulsive quiver; near to him as I was, I felt thespasmodic movement of fury or despair run through his frame. 

The second stranger, who had hitherto lingered in the background, nowdrew near; a pale face looked over the solicitor's shoulder--yes, it wasMason himself. Mr. Rochester turned and glared at him. His eye, as Ihave often said, was a black eye--it had now a tawny, nay, a bloodylight in its gloom; and his face flushed--olive cheek and huelessforehead received a glow, as from spreading, ascending heart-fire; andhe stirred, lifted his strong arm; he could have struck Mason--dashedhim on the church floor--shocked by ruthless blow the breath from hisbody; but Mason shrank away, and cried faintly, "Good God!" Contemptfell cool on Mr. Rochester--his passion died as if a blight hadshriveled it up; he only asked, "What have _you_ to say?"

An inaudible reply escaped Mason's white lips. 

"The devil is in it if you cannot answer distinctly. I again demand, what have _you_ to say?"

"Sir--sir, " interrupted the clergyman, "do not forget you are in asacred place. " Then addressing Mason, he inquired gently, "Are youaware, sir, whether or not this gentleman's wife is still living?"

"Courage, " urged the lawyer; "speak out. "

"She is now living at Thornfield Hall, " said Mason, in more articulatetones. "I saw her there last April. I am her brother. "

"At Thornfield Hall!" ejaculated the clergyman. "Impossible! I am an oldresident in this neighborhood, sir, and I never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at Thornfield Hall. "

I saw a grim smile contort Mr. Rochester's lip, and he muttered, "No, byGod! I took care that none should hear of it, or of her under thatname. " He mused; for ten minutes he held counsel with himself: he formedhis resolve, and announced it:--"Enough; all shall bolt out at once, like a bullet from the barrel. Wood, close your book and take off yoursurplice; John Green" (to the clerk) "leave the church: there will be nowedding to-day. " The man obeyed. 

Mr. Rochester continued hardily and recklessly:--"Bigamy is an uglyword! I meant, however, to be a bigamist; but fate has out-manoeuvredme, or Providence has checked me--perhaps the last. I am little betterthan a devil at this moment; and as my pastor there would tell me, deserve no doubt the sternest judgments of God, even to the quenchlessfire and deathless worm. 

"Gentlemen, my plan is broken up! what this lawyer and his client say istrue: I have been married, and the woman to whom I was married lives!You say you never heard of a Mrs. Rochester at the house up yonder, Wood; but I dare say you have many a time inclined your ear to gossipabout the mysterious lunatic kept there under watch and ward. Some havewhispered to you that she is my bastard half-sister; some, my cast-offmistress: I now inform you that she is my wife, whom I married fifteenyears ago--Bertha Mason by name; sister of this resolute personage whois now, with his quivering limbs and white cheeks, showing you what astout heart men may bear. Cheer up, Dick! never fear me! I'd almost assoon strike a woman as you. Bertha Mason is mad; and she came of a madfamily--idiots and maniacs through three generations! Her mother, theCreole, was both a mad-woman and a drunkard!--as I found out after I hadwed the daughter; for they were silent on family secrets before. Bertha, like a dutiful child, copied her parent in both points. I had a charmingpartner--pure, wise, modest; you can fancy I was a happy man. I wentthrough rich scenes! Oh! my experience has been heavenly, if you onlyknew it! But I owe you no further explanation. Briggs, Wood, Mason, Iinvite you all to come up to the house and visit Mrs. Poole's patient, and _my wife_! You shall see what sort of a being I was cheated intoespousing, and judge whether or not I had a right to break the compact, and seek sympathy with something at least human. This girl, " hecontinued, looking at me, "knew no more than you, Wood, of thedisgusting secret: she thought all was fair and legal, and never dreamedthat she was going to be entrapped into a feigned union with a defraudedwretch, already bound to a bad, mad, and imbruted partner! Come, all ofyou, follow. "

Still holding me fast, he left the church: the three gentlemen cameafter. At the front door of the hall we found the carriage. 

"Take it back to the coach-house, John, " said Mr. Rochester, coolly: "itwill not be wanted to-day. "

At our entrance, Mrs. Fairfax, Adèle, Sophie, Leah, advanced to meet andgreet us. 

"To the right-about--every soul!" cried the master: "away with yourcongratulations! Who wants them? Not I! they are fifteen yearstoo late!"

He passed on and ascended the stairs, still holding my hand, and stillbeckoning the gentlemen to follow him; which they did. We mounted thefirst staircase, passed up the gallery, proceeded to the third story:the low black door, opened by Mr. Rochester's master-key, admitted us tothe tapestried room, with its great bed and its pictorial cabinet. 

"You know this place, Mason, " said our guide; "she bit and stabbed youhere. "

He lifted the hangings from the wall, uncovering the second door; thistoo he opened. In a room without a window there burned a fire, guardedby a high and strong fender, and a lamp suspended from the ceiling by achain. Grace Poole bent over the fire, apparently cooking something in asaucepan. In the deep shade, at the further end of the room, a figureran backward and forward. What it was, whether beast or human being, onecould not at first sight tell; it groveled, seemingly, on all fours; itsnatched and growled like some strange wild animal; but it was coveredwith clothing; and a quantity of dark grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hidits head and face. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Poole, " said Mr. Rochester. "How are you? and how isyour charge to-day?"

"We're tolerable, sir, I thank you, " replied Grace, lifting the boilingmess carefully on to the hob: "rather snappish, but not 'rageous. "

A fierce cry seemed to give the lie to her favorable report: the clothedhyena rose up, and stood tall on its hind feet. 

"Ah, sir, she sees you!" exclaimed Grace: "you'd better not stay. "

"Only a few moments, Grace; you must allow me a few moments. "

"Take care then, sir! for God's sake, take care!"

The maniac bellowed; she parted her shaggy locks from her visage, andgazed wildly at her visitors. I recognized well that purple face--thosebloated features. Mrs. Poole advanced. 

"Keep out of the way, " said Mr. Rochester, thrusting her aside; "she hasno knife now, I suppose? and I'm on my guard. "

"One never knows what she has, sir, she is so cunning; it is not inmortal discretion to fathom her craft. "

"We had better leave her, " whispered Mason. 

"Go to the devil!" was his brother-in-law's recommendation. 

"'Ware!" cried Grace. The three gentlemen retreated simultaneously. Mr. Rochester flung me behind him; the lunatic sprang and grappled histhroat viciously, and laid her teeth to his cheek; they struggled. Shewas a big woman, in stature almost equaling her husband, and corpulentbesides; she showed virile force in the contest--more than once shealmost throttled him, athletic as he was. He could have settled her witha well-planted blow; but he would not strike her; he would only wrestle. At last he mastered her arms; Grace Poole gave him a cord, and hepinioned them behind her; with more rope, which was at hand, he boundher to a chair. The operation was performed amid the fiercest yells andthe most convulsive plunges. Mr. Rochester then turned to thespectators; he looked at them with a smile both acrid and desolate. 

"That is _my wife_, " said he. "Such is the sole conjugal embrace I amever to know--such are the endearments which are to solace my leisurehours! And _this_ is what I wished to have" (laying his hand on myshoulder): "this young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouthof hell, looking collectedly at the gambols of a demon. I wanted herjust as a change, after that fierce ragoût. Wood and Briggs, look at thedifference. Compare these clear eyes with the red balls yonder--thisface with that mask--this form with that bulk; then judge me, priest ofthe Gospel and man of the law, and remember, with what judgment ye judgeye shall be judged! Off with you now: I must shut up my prize. "

We all withdrew. Mr. Rochester stayed a moment behind us, to give somefurther order to Grace Poole. The solicitor addressed me as he descendedthe stair. 

"You, madam, " said he, "are cleared from all blame; your uncle will beglad to hear it--if indeed he should be still living--when Mr. Masonreturns to Madeira. "

"My uncle? What of him? Do you know him?"

"Mr. Mason does; Mr. Eyre has been the Funchal correspondent of hishouse for some years. When your uncle received your letter intimatingthe contemplated union between yourself and Mr. Rochester, Mr. Mason, who was staying at Madeira to recruit his health, on his way back toJamaica happened to be with him. Mr. Eyre mentioned the intelligence;for he knew that my client here was acquainted with a gentleman of thename of Rochester. Mr. Mason, astonished and distressed, as you maysuppose, revealed the real state of matters. Your uncle, I am sorry tosay, is now on a sick-bed; from which, considering the nature of hisdisease--decline--and the stage it has reached, it is unlikely he willever rise. He could not then hasten to England himself, to extricate youfrom the snare into which you had fallen, but he implored Mr. Mason tolose no time in taking steps to prevent the false marriage. He referredhim to me for assistance, I used all dispatch, and am thankful I was nottoo late: as you, doubtless, must be also. Were I not morally certainthat your uncle will be dead ere you reach Madeira, I would advise youto accompany Mr. Mason back; but as it is, I think you had better remainin England till you can hear further, either from or of Mr. Eyre. Havewe anything else to stay for?" he inquired of Mr. Mason. 

"No, no; let us be gone, " was the anxious reply; and without waiting totake leave of Mr. Rochester, they made their exit at the hall door. Theclergyman stayed to exchange a few sentences, either of admonition orreproof, with his haughty parishioner: this duty done, he too departed. 

I heard him go as I stood at the half-open door of my own room, to whichI had now withdrawn. The house cleared, I shut myself in, fastened thebolt that none might intrude, and proceeded--not to weep, not to mourn, I was yet too calm for that, but--mechanically to take off thewedding-dress, and replace if by the stuff gown I had worn yesterday, asI thought for the last time. I then sat down: I felt weak and tired. Ileaned my arms on a table, and my head dropped on them. And now Ithought: till now I had only heard, seen, moved--followed up and downwhere I was led or dragged--watched event rush on event, disclosure openbeyond disclosure; but _now I thought_. 

The morning had been a quiet morning enough--all except the brief scenewith the lunatic. The transaction in the church had not been noisy;there was no explosion of passion, no loud altercation, no dispute, nodefiance or challenge, no tears, no sobs: a few words had been spoken, acalmly pronounced objection to the marriage made; some stern, shortquestions put by Mr. Rochester; answers, explanations given, evidenceadduced; an open admission of the truth had been uttered by my master:then the living proof had been seen; the intruders were gone, andall was over. 

I was in my own room as usual--just myself, without obvious change;nothing had smitten me, or scathed me, or maimed me. And yet where wasthe Jane Eyre of yesterday? where was her life? where were herprospects?

Jane Eyre, who had been an ardent, expectant woman--almost a bride--wasa cold, solitary girl again: her life was pale; her prospects weredesolate. A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white Decemberstorm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples; drifts crushedthe blowing roses; on hay-field and corn-field lay a frozen shroud;lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathlesswith untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafyand fragrant as groves between the tropics, now spread waste, wild, andwhite as pine forests in wintry Norway. 

My hopes were all dead--struck with a subtle doom, such as in one nightfell on all the first-born in the land of Egypt. I looked on mycherished wishes, yesterday so blooming and glowing; they lay stark, chill, livid corpses that could never revive. I looked at my love, thatfeeling which was my master's--which he had created: it shivered in myheart, like a suffering child in a cold cradle; sickness and anguish hadseized it; it could not seek Mr. Rochester's arms--it could not derivewarmth from his breast. Oh, never more could it turn to him; for faithwas blighted--confidence destroyed! Mr. Rochester was not to me what hehad been; for he was not what I had thought him. I would not ascribevice to him; I would not say he had betrayed me: but the attribute ofstainless truth was gone from his idea; and from his presence I must go;_that_ I perceived well. When--how--whither, I could not yet discern;but he himself, I doubted not, would hurry me from Thornfield. Realaffection, it seemed, he could not have for me; it had been only fitfulpassion; that was balked; he would want me no more. I should fear evento cross his path now: my view must be hateful to him. Oh, how blind hadbeen my eyes! how weak my conduct!

MADAME BECK

(From 'Villette')

"You ayre Engliss?" said a voice at my elbow. I almost bounded, sounexpected was the sound; so certain had I been of solitude. 

No ghost stood beside me, nor anything of spectral aspect; merely amotherly, dumpy little woman, in a large shawl, a wrapping-gown, and aclean, trim, nightcap. 

I said I was English, and immediately, without further prelude, we fellto a most remarkable conversation. Madame Beck (for Madame Beck it was;she had entered by a little door behind me, and being shod with theshoes of silence, I had heard neither her entrance nor approach)--MadameBeck had exhausted her command of insular speech when she said "You ayreEngliss, " and she now proceeded to work away volubly in her own tongue. I answered in mine. She partly understood me, but as I did not at allunderstand her--though we made together an awful clamor (anything likemadame's gift of utterance I had not hitherto heard or imagined)--weachieved little progress. She rang, ere long, for aid; which arrived inthe shape of a "maîtresse, " who had been partly educated in an Irishconvent, and was esteemed a perfect adept in the English language. Abluff little personage this maîtresse was--Labasse-courienne from top totoe: and how she did slaughter the speech of Albion! However, I told hera plain tale, which she translated. I told her how I had left my owncountry, intent on extending my knowledge and gaining my bread; how Iwas ready to turn my hand to any useful thing, provided it was not wrongor degrading: how I would be a child's nurse or a lady's-maid, and wouldnot refuse even housework adapted to my strength. Madame heard this; andquestioning her countenance, I almost thought the tale won her ear. 

"Il n'y a que les Anglaises pour ces sortes d'entreprises, " said she:"sont-elles done intrépides, ces femmes-là!"

She asked my name, my age; she sat and looked at me--not pityingly, notwith interest: never a gleam of sympathy or a shade of compassioncrossed her countenance during the interview. I felt she was not one tobe led an inch by her feelings: grave and considerate, she gazed, consulting her judgment and studying my narrative. .. . 

In the dead of night I suddenly awoke. All was hushed, but a whitefigure stood in the room--Madame in her night-dress. Moving withoutperceptible sound, she visited the three children in the three beds; sheapproached me; I feigned sleep, and she studied me long. A smallpantomime ensued, curious enough. I dare say she sat a quarter of anhour on the edge of my bed, gazing at my face. She then drew nearer, bent close over me; slightly raised my cap, and turned back the borderso as to expose my hair; she looked at my hand lying on the bed-clothes. This done, she turned to the chair where my clothes lay; it was at thefoot of the bed. Hearing her touch and lift them, I opened my eyes withprecaution, for I own I felt curious to see how far her taste forresearch would lead her. It led her a good way: every article did sheinspect. I divined her motive for this proceeding; viz. , the wish toform from the garments a judgment respecting the wearer, her station, means, neatness, etc. The end was not bad, but the means were hardlyfair or justifiable. In my dress was a pocket; she fairly turned itinside out; she counted the money in my purse; she opened a littlememorandum-book, coolly perused its contents, and took from between theleaves a small plaited lock of Miss Marchmont's gray hair. To a bunch ofthree keys, being those of my trunk, desk, and work-box, she accordedspecial attention: with these, indeed, she withdrew a moment to her ownroom. I softly rose in my bed and followed her with my eye: these keys, reader, were not brought back till they had left on the toilet of theadjoining room the impress of their wards in wax. All being thus donedecently and in order, my property was returned to its place, my clotheswere carefully refolded. Of what nature were the conclusions deducedfrom this scrutiny? Were they favorable or otherwise? Vain question. Madame's face of stone (for of stone in its present night-aspect itlooked: it had been human, and as I said before, motherly, in the salon)betrayed no response. 

Her duty done--I felt that in her eyes this business was a duty--sherose, noiseless as a shadow: she moved toward her own chamber; at thedoor she turned, fixing her eyes on the heroine of the bottle, who stillslept and loudly snored. Mrs. Svini (I presume this was Mrs. Svini, Anglicé or Hibernicé Sweeny)--Mrs. Sweeny's doom was in Madame Beck'seye--an immutable purpose that eye spoke: madame's visitations forshortcomings might be slow, but they were sure. All this was veryun-English: truly I was in a foreign land. .. . 

When attired, Madame Beck appeared a personage of a figure rather shortand stout, yet still graceful in its own peculiar way: that is, with thegrace resulting from proportion of parts. Her complexion was fresh andsanguine, not too rubicund; her eye, blue and serene; her dark silkdress fitted her as a French sempstress alone can make a dress fit; shelooked well, though a little bourgeoise, as bourgeoise indeed she was. Iknow not what of harmony pervaded her whole person; and yet her faceoffered contrast too: its features were by no means such as are usuallyseen in conjunction with a complexion of such blended freshness andrepose: their outline was stern; her forehead was high but narrow; itexpressed capacity and some benevolence, but no expanse; nor did herpeaceful yet watchful eye ever know the fire which is kindled in theheart or the softness which flows thence. Her mouth was hard: it couldbe a little grim; her lips were thin. For sensibility and genius, withall their tenderness and temerity, I felt somehow that madame would bethe right sort of Minos in petticoats. 

In the long run, I found that she was something else in petticoats too. Her name was Modeste Maria Beck, née Kint: it ought to have beenIgnacia. She was a charitable woman, and did a great deal of good. Therenever was a mistress whose rule was milder. I was told that she neveronce remonstrated with the intolerable Mrs. Sweeny [the heroine'spredecessor], despite her tipsiness, disorder, and general neglect; yetMrs. Sweeny had to go, the moment her departure became convenient. I wastold too that neither masters nor teachers were found fault with in thatestablishment: yet both masters and teachers were often changed; theyvanished and others filled their places, none could well explain how. 

The establishment was both a pensionnat and an externat: the externes orday-pupils exceeded one hundred in number; the boarders were about ascore. Madame must have possessed high administrative powers: she ruledall these, together with four teachers, eight masters, six servants, andthree children, managing at the same time to perfection the pupil'sparents and friends; and that without apparent effort, without bustle, fatigue, fever, or any symptom of undue excitement; occupied she alwayswas--busy, rarely. It is true that madame had her own system formanaging and regulating this mass of machinery; and a very pretty systemit was: the reader has seen a specimen of it in that small affair ofturning my pocket inside out and reading my private memoranda. _Surveillance, espionnage_, these were her watchwords. 

Still, madame knew what honesty was, and liked it--that is, when it didnot obtrude its clumsy scruples in the way of her will and interest. Shehad a respect for "Angleterre"; and as to "les Anglaises, " she wouldhave the women of no other country about her own children, if shecould help it. 

Often in the evening, after she had been plotting and counter-plotting, spying and receiving the reports of spies all day, she would come up tomy room, a trace of real weariness on her brow, and she would sit downand listen while the children said their little prayers to me inEnglish: the Lord's Prayer and the hymn beginning "Gentle Jesus, " theselittle Catholics were permitted to repeat at my knee; and when I had putthem to bed, she would talk to me (I soon gained enough French to beable to understand and even answer her) about England and Englishwomen, and the reason for what she was pleased to term their superiorintelligence, and, more real and reliable probity. Very good sense sheoften showed; very sound opinions she often broached: she seemed to knowthat keeping girls in distrustful restraint, in blind ignorance, andunder a surveillance that left them no moment and no corner forretirement, was not the best way to make them grow up honest and modestwomen; but she averred that ruinous consequences would ensue if anyother method were tried with Continental children--they were soaccustomed to restraint that relaxation, however guarded, would bemisunderstood and fatally presumed on: she was sick, she would declare, of the means she had to use, but use them she must; and afterdiscoursing, often with dignity and delicacy, to me, she would move awayon her "souliers de silence, " and glide ghost-like through the house, watching and spying everywhere, peering through every key-hole, listening behind every door. 

After all, madame's system was not bad--let me do her justice. Nothingcould be better than all her arrangements for the physical well-being ofher scholars. No minds were overtasked; the lessons were welldistributed and made incomparably easy to the learner; there was aliberty of amusement and a provision for exercise which kept the girlshealthy; the food was abundant and good: neither pale nor puny faceswere anywhere to be seen in the Rue Fossette. She never grudged aholiday; she allowed plenty of time for sleeping, dressing, washing, eating: her method in all these matters was easy, liberal, salutary, andrational; many an austere English schoolmistress would do vastly well toimitate it--and I believe many would be glad to do so, if exactingEnglish parents would let them. 

As Madame Beck ruled by espionage, she of course had her staff of spies;she perfectly knew the quality of the tools she used, and while shewould not scruple to handle the dirtiest for a dirty occasion--flingingthis sort from her like refuse rind? after the orange has been dulysqueezed--I have known her fastidious in seeking pure metal for cleanuses; and when once a bloodless and rustless instrument was found, shewas careful of the prize, keeping it in silk and cotton-wool. Yet woe beto the man or woman who relied on her one inch beyond the point where itwas her interest to be trustworthy; interest was the master-key ofmadame's nature--the mainspring of her motives--the alpha and omega ofher life. I have seen her _feelings_ appealed to, and I have smiled inhalf-pity, half-scorn at the appellants. None ever gained her earthrough that channel, or swayed her purpose by that means. On thecontrary, to attempt to touch her heart was the surest way to rouse herantipathy, and to make of her a secret foe. It proved to her that shehad no heart to be touched: it reminded her where she was impotent anddead. Never was the distinction between charity and mercy betterexemplified than in her. While devoid of sympathy, she had a sufficiencyof rational benevolence: she would give in the readiest manner to peopleshe had never seen--rather, however, to classes than to individuals. "Pour les pauvres" she opened her purse freely--against the _poor man_, as a rule, she kept it closed. In philanthropic schemes, for the benefitof society at large, she took a cheerful part; no private sorrow touchedher: no force or mass of suffering concentrated in one heart had powerto pierce hers. Not the agony of Gethsemane, not the death on Calvary, could have wrung from her eyes one tear. 

I say again, madame was a very great and a very capable woman. Thatschool offered for her powers too limited a sphere: she ought to haveswayed a nation; she should have been the leader of a turbulentlegislative assembly. Nobody could have browbeaten her, none irritatedher nerves, exhausted her patience, or overreached her astuteness. Inher own single person, she could have comprised the duties of a firstminister and a superintendent of police. Wise, firm, faithless, secret, crafty, passionless; watchful and inscrutable; acute andinsensate--withal perfectly decorous--what more could be desired?

A YORKSHIRE LANDSCAPE

From 'Shirley'

"Miss Keeldar, just stand still now, and look down at Nunneley dale andwood. "

They both halted on the green brow of the Common. They looked down onthe deep valley robed in May raiment; on varied meads, some pearled withdaisies and some golden with kingcups: to-day all this young verduresmiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams playedover it. On Nunnwood--the sole remnant of antique British forest in aregion whose lowlands were once all sylvan chase, as its highlands werebreast-deep heather--slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills weredappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silveryblues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting intofleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye with aremote glimpse of heaven's foundations. The air blowing on the brow wasfresh and sweet and bracing. 

"Our England is a bonnie island, " said Shirley, "and Yorkshire is one ofher bonniest nooks. "

"You are a Yorkshire girl too?"

"I am--Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations of my race sleepunder the aisles of Briarfield Church: I drew my first breath in the oldblack hall behind us. "

Hereupon Caroline presented her hand, which was accordingly taken andshaken. "We are compatriots, " said she. 

"Yes, " agreed Shirley, with a grave nod. 

"And that, " asked Miss Keeldar, pointing to the forest--"that isNunnwood?"

"It is. "

"Were you ever there?"

"Many a time. "

"In the heart of it?"

"Yes. "

"What is it like?"

"It is like an encampment of forest sons of Anak. The trees are huge andold. When you stand at their roots, the summits seem in another region:the trunks remain still and firm as pillars, while the boughs sway toevery breeze. In the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed, and in a high wind a flood rushes--a sea thunders above you. "

"Was it not one of Robin Hood's haunts?"

"Yes, and there are mementos of him still existing. To penetrate intoNunnwood, Miss Keeldar, is to go far back into the dim days of old. Canyou see a break in the forest, about the centre?"

"Yes, distinctly. "

"That break is a dell--a deep hollow cup, lined with turf as green andshort as the sod of this Common: the very oldest of the trees, gnarledmighty oaks, crowd about the brink of this dell; in the bottom lie theruins of a nunnery. 

"We will go--you and I alone, Caroline--to that wood, early some finesummer morning, and spend a long day there. We can take pencils andsketch-books, and any interesting reading-book we like; and of course weshall take something to eat. I have two little baskets, in which Mrs. Gill, my house-keeper, might pack our provisions, and we could eachcarry our own. It would not tire you too much to walk so far?"

"Oh, no; especially if we rested the whole day in the wood; and I knowall the pleasantest spots. I know where we could get nuts in nuttingtime; I know where wild strawberries abound; I know certain lonely, quite untrodden glades, carpeted with strange mosses, some yellow as ifgilded, some a sober gray, some gem-green. I know groups of trees thatravish the eye with their perfect, picture-like effects: rude oak, delicate birch, glossy beech, clustered in contrast; and ash-trees, stately as Saul, standing isolated; and superannuated wood-giants cladin bright shrouds of ivy. "

THE END OF HEATHCLIFF

From Emily Bronté's 'Wuthering Heights'

For some days after that evening Mr. Heathcliff shunned meeting us atmeals; yet he would not consent formally to exclude Hareton and Cathy. He had an aversion to yielding so completely to his feelings, choosingrather to absent himself; and eating once in twenty-four hours seemedsufficient sustenance for him. 

One night, after the family were in bed, I heard him go down-stairs andout at the front door; I did not hear him re-enter, and in the morning Ifound he was still away. We were in April then, the weather was sweetand warm, the grass as green as showers and sun could make it, and thetwo dwarf apple-trees near the southern wall in full bloom. 

After breakfast, Catherine insisted on my bringing a chair and sittingwith my work under the fir-trees at the end of the house; and shebeguiled Hareton, who had recovered from his accident, to dig andarrange her little garden, which was shifted to that corner by theinfluence of Joseph's complaints. 

I was comfortably reveling in the spring fragrance around, and thebeautiful soft blue overhead, when my young lady, who had run down nearthe gate to procure some primrose roots for a border, returned only halfladen, and informed us that Mr. Heathcliff was coming in. 

"And he spoke to me, " she added with a perplexed look. 

"What did he say?" asked Hareton. 

"He told me to begone as fast as I could, " she answered. "But he lookedso different from his usual look that I stopped a moment to stareat him. "

"How?" he inquired. 

"Why, almost bright and cheerful--no, almost nothing--_very much_excited, and wild, and glad!" she replied. 

"Night-walking amuses him, then, " I remarked, affecting a carelessmanner; in reality as surprised as she was, and anxious to ascertain thetruth of her statement--for to see the master looking glad would not bean every-day spectacle; I framed an excuse to go in. 

Heathcliff stood at the open door--he was pale, and he trembled; yetcertainly he had a strange joyful glitter in his eyes, that altered theaspect of his whole face. 

"Will you have some breakfast?" I said. "You must be hungry, ramblingabout all night!"

I wanted to discover where he had been; but I did not like to askdirectly. 

"No, I'm not hungry, " he answered, averting his head, and speakingrather contemptuously, as if he guessed I was trying to divine theoccasion of his good humor. 

I felt perplexed--I didn't know whether it were not a proper opportunityto offer a bit of admonition. 

"I don't think it right to wander out of doors, " I observed, "instead ofbeing in bed; it is not wise, at any rate, this moist season. I daresayyou'll catch a bad cold, or a fever--you have something the matterwith you now!"

"Nothing but what I can bear, " he replied, "and with the greatestpleasure, provided you'll leave me alone--get in, and don't annoy me. "

I obeyed; and in passing, I saw he breathed as fast as a cat. 

"Yes!" I reflected to myself, "we shall have a fit of illness. I cannotconceive what he has been doing!"

That noon he sat down to dinner with us, and received a heaped-up platefrom my hands, as if he intended to make amends for previous fasting. 

"I've neither cold nor fever, Nelly, " he remarked, in allusion to mymorning speech. "And I'm ready to do justice to the food you give me. "

He took his knife and fork, and was going to commence eating, when theinclination appeared to become suddenly extinct. He laid them on thetable, looked eagerly toward the window, then rose and went out. We sawhim walking to and fro in the garden, while we concluded our meal; andEarnshaw said he'd go and ask why he would not dine; he thought we hadgrieved him some way. 

"Well, is he coming?" cried Catherine, when he returned. 

"Nay, " he answered; "but he's not angry: he seemed rare and pleasedindeed; only I made him impatient by speaking to him twice: and then hebid me be off to you; he wondered how I could want the company ofanybody else. "

I set his plate to keep warm on the fender; and after an hour or two here-entered, when the room was clear, in no degree calmer: the sameunnatural--it was unnatural!--appearance of joy under his black brows;the same bloodless hue; and his teeth visible now and then in a kind ofsmile; his frame shivering, not as one shivers with chill or weakness, but as a tight-stretched cord vibrates--a strong thrilling, rather thantrembling. 

"I will ask what is the matter, " I thought, "or who should?" And Iexclaimed, "Have you heard any good news, Mr. Heathcliff? You lookuncommonly animated. "

"Where should good news come from to me?" he said. "I'm animated withhunger; and seemingly I must not eat. "

"Your dinner is here, " I returned: "why won't you get it?"

"I don't want it now, " he muttered hastily. "I'll wait till supper. And, Nelly, once for all, let me beg you to warn Hareton and the other awayfrom me. I wish to be troubled by nobody--I wish to have this placeto myself. "

"Is there some new reason for this banishment?" I inquired. "Tell me whyyou are so queer, Mr. Heathcliff. Where were you last night? I'm notputting the question through idle curiosity, but--"

"You are putting the question through very idle curiosity, " heinterrupted, with a laugh. "Yet I'll answer it. Last night I was on thethreshold of hell. To-day I am within sight of my heaven--I have my eyeson it--hardly three feet to sever me. And now you'd better go. You'llneither see nor hear anything to frighten you if you refrainfrom prying. "

Having swept the hearth and wiped the table, I departed more perplexedthan ever. He did not quit the house again that afternoon, and no oneintruded on his solitude till at eight o'clock I deemed it proper, though unsummoned, to carry a candle and his supper to him. 

He was leaning against the ledge of an open lattice, but not lookingout; his face was turned to the interior gloom. The fire had smolderedto ashes; the room was filled with the damp, mild air of the cloudyevening; and so still, that not only the murmur of the beck downGimmerton was distinguishable, but its ripples, and its gurgling overthe pebbles, or through the large stones which it could not cover. 

I uttered an ejaculation of discontent at seeing the dismal grate, andcommenced shutting the casements, one after another, till I came to his. 

"Must I close this?" I asked, in order to rouse him, for he would notstir. 

The light flashed on his features as I spoke. O Mr. Lockwood, I cannotexpress what a terrible start I got by the momentary view! Those deepblack eyes! That smile and ghastly paleness! It appeared to me not Mr. Heathcliff, but a goblin; and in my terror I let the candle bend towardthe wall, and it left me in darkness. 

"Yes, close it, " he replied in his familiar voice. "There, that is pureawkwardness! Why did you hold the candle horizontally? Be quick, andbring another. "

I hurried out in a foolish state of dread, and said to Joseph, "Themaster wishes you to take him a light and rekindle the fire. " For I darenot go in myself again just then. 

Joseph rattled some fire into the shovel and went; but he brought itback immediately, with the supper tray in his other hand, explainingthat Mr. Heathcliff was going to bed, and he wanted nothing to eattill morning. 

We heard him mount the stairs directly. He did not proceed to hisordinary chamber, but turned into that with the paneled bed; its window, as I mentioned before, is wide enough for anybody to get through, and itstruck me that he plotted another midnight excursion, which he hadrather we had no suspicion of. 

"Is he a ghoul, or a vampire?" I mused. I had read of such hideousincarnate demons. And then I set myself to reflect how I had tended himin infancy, and watched him grow to youth, and followed him almostthrough his whole course, and what nonsense it was to yield to thatsense of horror. 

"But where did he come from, the little dark thing, harbored by a goodman to his bane?" muttered Superstition, as I dozed intounconsciousness. And I began, half dreaming, to weary myself withimagining some fit parentage for him: and repeating my wakingmeditations I tracked his existence over again, with grim variations; atlast picturing his death and funeral; of which all I can remember isbeing exceedingly vexed at having the task of dictating an inscriptionfor his monument, and consulting the sexton about it; and as he had nosurname, and we could not tell his age, we were obliged to contentourselves with the single word "Heathcliff. " That came true--we were. Ifyou enter the kirkyard, you'll read on his headstone only that, and thedate of his death. Dawn restored me to common-sense. I rose, and wentinto the garden, as soon as I could see, to ascertain if there were anyfoot-marks under his window. There were none. 

"He has staid at home, " I thought, "and he'll be all right to-day!"

I prepared breakfast for the household, as was my usual custom, but toldHareton and Catherine to get theirs ere the master came down, for he laylate. They preferred taking it out of doors, under the trees, and I seta little table to accommodate them. 

On my re-entrance I found Mr. Heathcliff below. He and Joseph wereconversing about some farming business; he gave clear, minute directionsconcerning the matter discussed, but he spoke rapidly, and turned hishead continually aside, and had the same excited expression, even moreexaggerated. 

When Joseph quitted the room, he took his seat in the place he generallychose, and I put a basin of coffee before him. He drew it nearer, andthen rested his arms on the table, and looked at the opposite wall, as Isupposed surveying one particular portion, up and down, with glittering, restless eyes, and with such eager interest that he stopped breathingduring half a minute together. 

"Come now, " I exclaimed, pushing some bread against his hand, "eat anddrink that while it is hot. It has been waiting near an hour. "

He didn't notice me, and yet he smiled. I'd rather have seen him gnashhis teeth than smile so. 

"Mr. Heathcliff! master!" I cried. "Don't, for God's sake, stare as ifyou saw an unearthly vision. "

"Don't, for God's sake, shout so loud, " he replied. "Turn round and tellme, are we by ourselves?"

"Of course, " was my answer, "of course we are!"

Still I involuntarily obeyed him, as if I were not quite sure. With asweep of his hand he cleared a vacant space in front among the breakfastthings, and leaned forward to gaze more at his ease. 

Now I perceived he was not looking at the wall; for when I regarded himalone, it seemed exactly that he gazed at something within two yards'distance. And, whatever it was, it communicated apparently both pleasureand pain in exquisite extremes; at least the anguished yet rapturedexpression of his countenance suggested that idea. 

The fancied object was not fixed either; his eyes pursued it withunwearied vigilance, and even in speaking to me, were never weaned away. 

I vainly reminded him of his protracted abstinence from food. If hestirred to touch anything in compliance with my entreaties--if hestretched his hand out to get a piece of bread--his fingers clenchedbefore they reached it, and remained on the table, forgetful oftheir aim. 

I sat, a model of patience, trying to attract his absorbed attentionfrom its engrossing speculation till he grew irritable and got up, asking why I would not allow him to have his own time in taking hismeals? and saying that on the next occasion I needn't wait--I might setthe things down and go. Having uttered these words, he left the house, slowly sauntered down the garden path, and disappeared through the gate. 

The hours crept anxiously by: another evening came. I did not retire torest till late, and when I did I could not sleep. He returned aftermidnight, and instead of going to bed, shut himself into the roombeneath. I listened and tossed about, and finally dressed and descended. It was too irksome to lie up there, harassing my brain with a hundredidle misgivings. 

I distinguished Mr. Heathcliff's step, restlessly measuring the floor;and he frequently broke the silence by a deep inspiration, resembling agroan. He muttered detached words also; the only one I could catch wasthe name of Catherine, coupled with some wild term of endearment orsuffering, and spoken as one would speak to a person present--low andearnest, and wrung from the depth of his soul. 

I had not courage to walk straight into the apartment; but I desired todivert him from his revery, and therefore fell foul of the kitchen fire;stirred it and began to scrape the cinders. It drew him forth soonerthan I expected. He opened the door immediately, and said:--

"Nelly, come here--is it morning? Come in with your light. "

"It is striking four, " I answered; "you want a candle to takeupstairs--you might have lighted one at this fire. "

"No, I don't wish to go upstairs, " he said. "Come in, and kindle _me_ afire, and do anything there is to do about the room. "

"I must blow the coals red first, before I can carry any, " I replied, getting a chair and the bellows. 

He roamed to and fro, meantime, in a state approaching distraction, hisheavy sighs succeeding each other so thick as to leave no space forcommon breathing between. 

"When day breaks, I'll send for Green, " he said; "I wish to make somelegal inquiries of him, while I can bestow a thought on those matters, and while I can act calmly. I have not written my will yet, and how toleave my property I cannot determine! I wish I could annihilate it fromthe face of the earth. "

"I would not talk so, Mr. Heathcliff, " I interposed. "Let your will be awhile--you'll be spared to repent of your many injustices yet! I neverexpected that your nerves would be disordered--they are, at present, marvelously so, however; and almost entirely through your own fault. Theway you've passed these last three days might knock up a Titan. Do takesome food and some repose. You need only look at yourself in a glass tosee how you require both. Your cheeks are hollow and your eyesbloodshot, like a person starving with hunger and going blind with lossof sleep. "

"It is not my fault that I cannot eat or rest, " he replied. "I assureyou it is through no settled designs. I'll do both as soon as I possiblycan. But you might as well bid a man struggling in the water rest withinarm's-length of the shore! I must reach it first, and then I'll rest. Well, never mind Mr. Green; as to repenting of my injustices, I've doneno injustice, and I repent of nothing. I'm too happy, and yet I'm nothappy enough. My soul's bliss kills my body, but does notsatisfy itself. "

"Happy, master?" I cried. "Strange happiness! If you would hear mewithout being angry, I might offer some advice that would makeyou happier. "

"What is that?" he asked. "Give it. "

"You are aware, Mr. Heathcliff, " I said, "that from the time you werethirteen years old you have lived a selfish, unchristian life: andprobably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all that period. Youmust have forgotten the contents of the book, and you may not have spaceto search it now. Could it be hurtful to send for some one--someminister of any denomination, it does not matter which--to explain it, and show you how very far you have erred from its precepts, and howunfit you will be for its heaven, unless a change takes place beforeyou die?"

"I'm rather obliged than angry, Nelly, " he said, "for you remind me ofthe manner that I desire to be buried in. It is to be carried to thechurchyard in the evening. You and Hareton may, if you please, accompanyme--and mind, particularly, to notice that the sexton obeys mydirections concerning the two coffins! No minister need come; nor needanything be said over me. I tell you, I have nearly attained _my_heaven; and that of others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me!"

"And supposing you persevered in your obstinate fast, and died by thatmeans, and they refused to bury you in the precincts of the kirk?" Isaid, shocked at his godless indifference. "How would you like it?"

"They won't do that, " he replied; "if they did, you must have me removedsecretly; and if you neglect it, you shall prove practically that thedead are not annihilated!"

As soon as he heard the other members of the family stirring, he retiredto his den, and I breathed freer. But in the afternoon, while Joseph andHareton were at their work, he came into the kitchen again, and with awild look bid me come and sit in the house--he wanted somebody with him. 

I declined, telling him plainly that his strange talk and mannerfrightened me, and I had neither the nerve nor the will to be hiscompanion alone. 

"I believe you think me a fiend!" he said, with his dismal laugh;"something too horrible to live under a decent roof!"

Then turning to Catherine, who was there, and who drew behind me at hisapproach, he added, half sneeringly:--

"Will _you_ come, chuck? I'll not hurt you. No! to you I've made myselfworse than the devil. Well, there is _one_ who won't shrink from mycompany! By God! she's relentless. Oh, damn it! It's unutterably toomuch for flesh and blood to bear, even mine. "

He solicited the society of no one more. At dusk he went into hischamber. Through the whole night, and far into the morning, we heard himgroaning and murmuring to himself. Hareton was anxious to enter, but Ibid him fetch Mr. Kenneth, and he should go in and see him. 

When he came, and I requested admittance and tried to open the door, Ifound it locked; and Heathcliff bid us be damned. He was better, andwould be left alone; so the doctor went away. 

The following evening was very wet; indeed, it poured down tillday-dawn; and as I took my morning walk round the house, I observed themaster's window swinging open, and the rain driving straight in. 

"He cannot be in bed, " I thought: "those showers would drench himthrough! He must be either up or out. But I'll make no more ado; I'll goboldly, and look!"

Having succeeded in obtaining entrance with another key, I ran tounclose the panels, for the chamber was vacant--quickly pushing themaside, I peeped in. Mr. Heathcliff was there--laid on his back. His eyesmet mine, so keen and fierce that I started; and then he seemedto smile. 

I could not think him dead--but his face and throat were washed withrain; the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly still. The lattice, flapping to and fro, had grazed one hand that rested on the sill--noblood trickled from the broken skin, and when I put my fingers to it Icould doubt no more--he was dead and stark!

I hasped the window; I combed his long, black hair from his forehead; Itried to close his eyes--to extinguish, if possible, that frightful, lifelike exultation, before any one else beheld it. They would notshut--they seemed to sneer at my attempts, and his parted lips and sharpwhite teeth sneered too! Taken with another fit of cowardice, I criedout for Joseph. Joseph shuffled up and made a noise, but resolutelyrefused to meddle with him. "Th' divil's harried off his soul, " hecried, "and he muh hev his carcass intuh t' bargain, for ow't aw care!Ech! what a wicked un he looks, grinning at death!" and the old sinnergrinned in mockery. 

I thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but suddenlycomposing himself, he fell on his knees and raised his hands, andreturned thanks that the lawful master and the ancient stock wererestored to their rights. 

I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoidably recurred toformer times with a sort of oppressive sadness. But poor Hareton, themost wronged, was the only one that really suffered much. He sat by thecorpse all night, weeping in bitter earnest. He pressed its hand, andkissed the sarcastic, savage face that every one else shrank fromcontemplating; and bemoaned him with that strong grief which springsnaturally from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel. 

Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the master died. Iconcealed the fact of his having swallowed nothing for four days, fearing it might lead to trouble; and then, I am persuaded, he did notabstain on purpose: it was the consequence of his strange illness, notthe cause. 

We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighborhood, as he hadwished. Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to carry the coffin, comprehended the whole attendance. 

The six men departed when they had let it down into the grave: we stayedto see it covered. Hareton, with a streaming face, dug green sods andlaid them over the brown mold himself. At present it is as smooth andverdant as its companion mounds--and I hope its tenant sleeps assoundly. But the country folks, if you asked them, would swear on theirBibles that he _walks_. There are those who speak to having met him nearthe church, and on the moor, and even within this house. Idle tales, you'll say, and so say I. Yet that old man by the kitchen fire affirmshe has seen "two on 'em" looking out of his chamber window on everyrainy night since his death--and an odd thing happened to me about amonth ago. 

I was going to the grange one evening--a dark evening threateningthunder--and, just at the turn of the Heights, I encountered a littleboy with a sheep and two lambs before him. He was crying terribly, and Isupposed the lambs were skittish and would not be guided. 

"What is the matter, my little man?" I asked. 

"They's Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t' nab, " he blubbered, "un'aw darnut pass 'em. "

I saw nothing, but neither the sheep nor he would go on, so I bid himtake the road lower down. He probably raised the phantoms from thinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the nonsense he had heard hisparents and companions repeat; yet still I don't like being out in thedark now, and I don't like being left by myself in this grim house. Icannot help it; I shall be glad when they leave it and shift tothe Grange!

 * * * * *

"They are going to the Grange, then?" I said. 

"Yes, " answered Mrs. Dean, "as soon as they are married; and that willbe on New Year's day. "

"And who will live here then?"

"Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and perhaps a lad to keep himcompany. They will live in the kitchen, and the rest will be shut up. "

"For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it, " I observed. 

"No, Mr. Lockwood, " said Nelly, shaking her head. "I believe the deadare at peace, but it is not right to speak of them with levity. "

At that moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were returning. 

"_They_ are afraid of nothing, " I grumbled, watching their approachthrough the window. "Together they would brave Satan and allhis legions. "

As they stepped upon the door-stones, and halted to take a last look atthe moon, or more correctly at each other, by her light, I feltirresistibly impelled to escape them again; and pressing a remembranceinto the hands of Mrs. Dean, and disregarding her expostulations at myrudeness, I vanished through the kitchen, as they opened the house-door;and so should have confirmed Joseph in his opinion of hisfellow-servant's gay indiscretions, had he not fortunately recognized mefor a respectable character by the sweet ring of a sovereign athis feet. 

My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction of the kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made progress even inseven months--many a window showed black gaps deprived of glass; andslates jutted off, here and there, beyond the right line of the roof, tobe gradually worked off in coming autumn storms. 

I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope nextthe moor--the middle one, gray, and half buried in the heath--EdgarLinton's only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up itsfoot--Heathcliff's still bare. 

I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the mothsfluttering among the heath and harebells; listened to the soft windbreathing through the grass; and wondered how any one could ever imagineunquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth. 

PHILLIPS BROOKS

(1835-1893)

Phillips Brooks was born in Boston, Massachusetts, December 13th, 1835, and died there January 23d, 1893. He inherited the best traditions ofNew England history, being on the paternal side the direct descendant ofJohn Cotton, and his mother's name, Phillips, standing for high learningand distinction in the Congregational church. Born at a time when theorthodox faith was fighting its bitterest battle with Unitarianism, hisparents accepted the dogmas of the new theology, and had him baptized bya Unitarian clergyman. But while refusing certain dogmas of the orthodoxchurch, they were the more thrown back for spiritual support upon theinternal evidences of evangelical Christianity. "Holding still, " saysthe Rev. Arthur Brooks, "in a greater or less degree, and with more orless precision, to the old statements, they counted the great fact thatthese statements enshrined more precious truth than any other. "Transition to the Episcopal church was easy; the mother became anEpiscopalian, and Phillips Brooks received all his early training inthat communion. But heredity had its influence, and in after-life thegreat Bishop said that the Episcopal church could reap the fruits of thelong and bitter controversy which divided the New England church, onlyas it discerned the spiritual worth of Puritanism, and the value of itscontributions to the history of religious thought and character. 

Such were the early surroundings of the man, and the subsequentinfluences of his life tended to foster this liberal spirit. For such apurpose, Boston itself was a good place to live in: it was too large tobe wholly provincial, and it was not so large that the individual waslost; and at that time it was moreover the literary centre of America. When Phillips Brooks entered Harvard, he came into an atmosphere ofintense intellectual activity. James Walker was the president of thecollege, and Lowell, Holmes, Agassiz, and Longfellow were among theprofessors. He graduated with honor in 1855, and soon after entered theEpiscopal theological seminary at Alexandria, Virginia. 

The transition from Harvard to this college was an abrupt one. Thestandards of the North and South were radically different. The theologyof the Church in Virginia, while tolerant to that of otherdenominations, was uncompromisingly hostile to what it regarded asheterodox. 

When the War was declared he threw himself passionately into the causeof the Union. Yet his affection for his Southern classmates, men fromwhom he so widely differed, broadened that charity that was one of hisfinest characteristics, a charity that respected convictionwherever found. 

No man, in truth, ever did so much to remove prejudice against a Churchthat had never been popular in New England. To the old Puritan dislikeof Episcopacy and distrust of the English Church as that of theoppressors of the colony, was added a sense of resentment toward itssacerdotal claims and its assumption of ecclesiastical supremacy. But henevertheless protested against the claim by his own communion to thetitle of "The American Church, " he preached occasionally in otherpulpits, he even had among his audiences clergymen of otherdenominations, and he was able to reconcile men of different creeds intoconcord on what is essential in all. The breadth and depth of histeaching attracted so large a following that he increased the strengthof the Episcopal Church in America far more than he could have done bycarrying on an active propaganda in its behalf. Under his pastorateTrinity Church, Boston, became the centre of some of the most vigorousChristian activity in America. 

His first charge was the Church of the Advent, in Philadelphia; in twoyears he became rector of Holy Trinity Church in the same city. In 1869he was called to Trinity Church, Boston, of which he was rector untilhis election as bishop of Massachusetts in 1891. 

It is impossible to give an idea of Phillips Brooks without a word abouthis personality, which was almost contradictory. His commanding figure, his wit, the charm of his conversation, and a certain boyish gayety andnaturalness, drew people to him as to a powerful magnet. He was one ofthe best known men in America; people pointed him out to strangers inhis own city as they pointed out the Common and the Bunker Hillmonument. When he went to England, where he preached before the Queen, men and women of all classes greeted him as a friend. They thronged thechurches where he preached, not only to hear him but to see him. Manystories are told of him; some true, some more or less apocryphal, allproving the affectionate sympathy existing between him and his kind. Itwas said of him that as soon as he entered a pulpit he was absolutelyimpersonal. There was no trace of individual experience or theologicalconflict by which he might be labeled. He was simply a messenger of thetruth as he held it, a mouthpiece of the gospel as he believed it hadbeen delivered to him. 

[Illustration: PHILIPS BROOKS. ]

Although in his seminary days his sermons were described as vague andunpractical, Phillips Brooks was as great a preacher when under thirtyyears of age as he was at any later time. His early sermons, delivered to his first charge in Philadelphia, displayed the sameindividuality, the same force and completeness and clearness ofconstruction, the same deep, strong undertone of religious thought, ashis great discourses preached in Westminster Abbey six months before hisdeath. His sentences are sonorous; his style was characterized by anoble simplicity, impressive, but without a touch showing that dramaticeffect was strained for. 

He passionately loved nature in all her aspects, and traveled widely insearch of the picturesque; but he used his experience with reserve, andhis illustrations are used to explain human life. His power of paintinga picture in a few bold strokes appears strikingly in the great sermonon the 'Lesson of the Life of Saul, ' where he contrasts early promiseand final failure; and in that other not less remarkable presentation ofthe vision of Saint Peter. His treatment of Bible narratives is not atranslation into the modern manner, nor is it an adaptation, but apoetical rendering, in which the flavor of the original is not lostthough the lesson is made contemporary. And while he did not transcribenature upon his pages, his sermons are not lacking in decoration. Heused figures of speech and drew freely on history and art forillustrations, but not so much to elucidate his subject as to ornamentit. His essays on social and literary subjects are written with the aimof directness of statement, pure and simple; but the stuff of which hissermons are woven is of royal purple. 

The conviction that religious sentiment should penetrate the whole lifeshowed itself in Phillips Brooks's relation to literature. "Truth bathedin light and uttered in love makes the new unit of power, " he says inhis essay on literature. It was his task to mediate between literatureand theology, and restore theology to the place it lost through theabstractions of the schoolmen. What he would have done if he had devotedhimself to literature alone, we can only conjecture by the excellence ofhis style in essays and sermons. They show his poetical temperament; andhis little lyric 'O Little Town of Bethlehem' will be sung as long asChristmas is celebrated. His essays show more clearly even than hissermons his opinions on society, literature, and religion. They placehim where he belongs, in that "small transfigured band the world cannottame, "--the world of Cranmer, Jeremy Taylor, Robertson, Arnold, Maurice. His paper on Dean Stanley discloses his theological views as openly asdo his addresses on 'Heresies and Orthodoxy. '

As might be expected of one who, in the word's best sense, was sothoroughly a man, he had great influence with young men and was one ofthe most popular of Harvard preachers. It was his custom for thirtyalternate years to go abroad in the summer, and there, as in America, hewas regarded as a great pulpit orator. He took a large view of socialquestions and was in sympathy with all great popular movements. Hisadvancement to the episcopate was warmly welcomed by all parties, exceptone branch of his own church with which his principles were at variance, and every denomination delighted in his elevation as if he were thepeculiar property of each. 

He published several volumes of sermons. His works include 'Lectures onPreaching' (New York, 1877), 'Sermons' (1878-81), 'Bohlen Lectures'(1879), 'Baptism and Confirmation' (1880), 'Sermons Preached in EnglishChurches' (1883), 'The Oldest Schools in America' (Boston, 1885), 'Twenty Sermons' (New York, 1886), 'Tolerance' (1887), 'The Light of theWorld, and Other Sermons' (1890), and 'Essays and Addresses' (1894). His'Letters of Travel' show him to be an accurate observer, with a largefund of spontaneous humor. No letters to children are so delightful asthose in this volume. 

 O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

 O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by. Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night. 

 O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth. For Christ is born of Mary, And gathered all above; While mortals sleep the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. 

 How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of his heaven. No ear may hear his coming; But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive him still, The dear Christ enters in. 

Where children pure and happy Pray to the blessèd Child, Where Misery cries out to thee, Son of the Mother mild; Where Charity stands watching, And Faith holds wide the door, The dark night wakes; the glory breaks, And Christmas comes once more. 

 O holy Child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray! Cast out our sin and enter in; Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; O come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!

 Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. [Illustration]

_THE HOLY CHILD OF BETHLEHEM_. 

Photogravure from a Painting by H. Havenith. 

"Where children pure and happy Pray to the blessed Child. "

PERSONAL CHARACTER

From 'Essays and Addresses'

As one looks around the world, and as one looks around our own landto-day, he sees that the one thing we need in high places--the thingwhose absence, among those who hold the reins of highest power, ismaking us all anxious with regard to the progress of the country--ispersonal character. The trouble is not what we hold to be mistaken ideaswith regard to policies of government, but it is the absence of loftyand unselfish character. It is the absence of the complete consecrationof a man's self to the public good; it is the willingness of men tobring their personal and private spites into spheres whose elevationought to shame such things into absolute death; the tendencies of men, even of men whom the nation has put in very high places indeed, to countthose high places their privileges, and to try to draw from them, nothelp for humanity and the community over which they rule, but their ownmean personal private advantage. 

If there is any power that can elevate human character: if there is anypower which, without inspiring men with a supernatural knowledge withregard to policies of government; without making men solve all at once, intuitively, the intricacies of problems of legislation with which theyare called upon to deal; without making men see instantly to the veryheart of every matter; if there is any power which could permeate to thevery bottom of our community, which would make men unselfish andtrue--why, the errors of men, the mistakes men might make in theirjudgment, would not be an obstacle in the way of the progress of thisgreat nation in the work which God has given her to do. They would makejolts, but nothing more. Or in the course which God has appointed her torun she would go to her true results. There is no power that man hasever seen that can abide; there is no power of which man has everdreamed that can regenerate human character except religion; and tillthe Christian religion, which is the religion of this land--till theChristian religion shall have so far regenerated human character in thisland that multitudes of men shall act under its high impulses andprinciples, so that the men who are not inspired with them shall beshamed at least into an outward conformity with them, there is nosecurity for the great final continuance of the nation. 

Copyrighted by E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. 

THE COURAGE OF OPINIONS

From 'Essays and Addresses'

We have spoken of physical courage, or the courage of nerves; of moralcourage, or the courage of principles. Besides these there isintellectual courage, or the courage of opinions. Let me say a few wordsupon that, for surely there is nothing which we more need to understand. 

The ways in which people form their opinions are most remarkable. Everyman, when he begins his reasonable life, finds certain general opinionscurrent in the world. He is shaped by these opinions in one way oranother, either directly or by reaction. If he is soft and plastic, likethe majority of people, he takes the opinions that are about him for hisown. If he is self-asserting and defiant, he takes the opposite of theseopinions and gives to them his vehement adherence. We know the two kindswell, and as we ordinarily see them, the fault which is at the root ofboth is intellectual cowardice. One man clings servilely to the oldready-made opinions which he finds, because he is afraid of beingcalled rash and radical; another rejects the traditions of his peoplefrom fear of being thought fearful, and timid, and a slave. The resultsare very different: one is the tame conservative and the other is thefiery iconoclast; but I beg you to see that the cause in both cases isthe same. Both are cowards. Both are equally removed from that braveseeking of the truth which is not set upon either winning or avoidingany name, which will take no opinion for the sake of conformity andreject no opinion for the sake of originality; which is free, therefore--free to gather its own convictions, a slave neither to anycompulsion nor to any antagonism. Tell me, have you never seen twoteachers, one of them slavishly adopting old methods because he fearedto be called "imitator, " the other crudely devising new plans because hewas afraid of seeming conservative, both of them really cowards, neitherof them really thinking out his work? . .. 

The great vice of our people in their relation to the politics of theland is cowardice. It is not lack of intelligence: our people know themeaning of political conditions with wonderful sagacity. It is not lowmorality: the great mass of our people apply high standards to the actsof public men. But it is cowardice. It is the disposition of one part ofour people to fall in with current ways of working, to run with themass; and of another part to rush headlong into this or that new schemeor policy of opposition, merely to escape the stigma of conservatism. 

LITERATURE AND LIFE

From 'Essays and Addresses'

Life comes before literature, as the material always comes before thework. The hills are full of marble before the world blooms with statues. The forests are full of trees before the sea is thick with ships. So theworld abounds in life before men begin to reason and describe andanalyze and sing, and literature is born. The fact and the action mustcome first. This is true in every kind of literature. The mind and itsworkings are before the metaphysician. Beauty and romance antedate thepoet. The nations rise and fall before the historian tells their story. Nature's profusion exists before the first scientific book is written. Even the facts of mathematics must be true before the first diagram isdrawn for their demonstration. 

To own and recognize this priority of life is the first need ofliterature. Literature which does not utter a life already existent, more fundamental than itself, is shallow and unreal. I had a schoolmatewho at the age of twenty published a volume of poems called'Life-Memories. ' The book died before it was born. There were no realmemories, because there had been no life. So every science which doesnot utter investigated fact, every history which does not tell ofexperience, every poetry which is not based upon the truth of things, has no real life. It does not perish; it is never born. Therefore menand nations must live before they can make literature. Boys and girls donot write books. Oregon and Van Diemen's Land produce no literature:they are too busy living. The first attempts at literature of anycountry, as of our own, are apt to be unreal and imitative andtransitory, because life has not yet accumulated and presented itself informs which recommend themselves to literature. The wars must come, theclamorous problems must arise, the new types of character must beevolved, the picturesque social complication must develop, a life mustcome, and then will be the true time for a literature. .. . Literaturegrows feeble and conceited unless it ever recognizes the priority andsuperiority of life, and stands in genuine awe before the greatness ofthe men and of the ages which have simply lived. 

CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN (1771-1810)

Not only was Brockden Brown the first American man-of-lettersproper, --one writing for a living before we had any real literature ofour own, --but his work possessed a genuine power and originality whichgives it some claim to remembrance for its own sake. And it is fairalways to remember that a given product from a pioneer indicates a fargreater endowment than the same from one of a group in a more developedage. The forerunner lacks not one thing only, but many things, whichhelp his successors. He lacks the mental friction from, the emulationof, the competition with, other writers; he lacks the stimulus andcomfort of sympathetic companionship; he lacks an audience to spur himon, and a market to work for; lacks labor-saving conventions, training, and an environment that heartens him instead of merely tolerating him. Like Robinson Crusoe, he must make his tools before he can use them. Ameagre result may therefore be a proof of great abilities. 

[Illustration: CHARLES B. BROWN]

The United States in 1800 was mentally and morally a colony of GreatBritain still. A few hundred thousand white families scattered overabout as many square miles of territory, much of it refractorywilderness with more refractory inhabitants; with no cities of any size, and no communication save by wretched roads or by sailing vessels; norich old universities for centres of culture, and no rich leisuredsociety to enjoy it; the energies of the people perforce absorbed insubduing material obstacles, or solidifying a political experimentdisbelieved in by the very men who organized it;--neither time normaterials existed then for an independent literary life, which is thegrowth of security and comfort and leisure if it embraces a wholesociety, or of endowed college foundations and an aristocracy if it isonly of the few. Hence American society took its literary meals at thecommon table of the English-speaking race, with little or no effort at aseparate establishment. There was much writing, but mostly polemic orjournalistic. When real literature was attempted, it consisted ingeneral of imitations of British essays, or fiction, or poetry; and inthe last two cases not even imitations of the best models in either. Theessays were modeled on Addison; the poetry on the heavy imitators ofPope's heroics; the fiction either on the effusive sentimentalists whofollowed Richardson, or on the pseudo-Orientalists like Walpole andLewis, or on the pseudo-mediævalists like Mrs. Roche and Mrs. Radcliffe. This sort of work filled the few literary periodicals of the day, butwas not read enough to make such publications profitable even then, andis pretty much all unreadable now. 

Charles Brockden Brown stands in marked contrast to these second-handweaklings, not only by his work but still more by his method and temper. In actual achievement he did not quite fulfill the promise of his earlybooks, and cannot be set high among his craft. He was an inferiorartist; and though he achieved naturalism of matter, he clung to thetheatrical artificiality of style which was in vogue. But if he hadbroken away from all traditions, he could have gained no hearingwhatever; he died young--twenty years more might have left him a muchgreater figure; and he wrought in disheartening loneliness of spirit. His accomplishment was that of a pioneer. He was the first Americanauthor to see that the true field for his fellows was America and notEurope. He realized, as the genius of Châteaubriand realized at almostthe same moment, the artistic richness of the material which lay to handin the silent forest vastnesses, with their unfamiliar life of man andbeast, and their possibilities of mystery enough to satisfy the mostcraving. He was not the equal of the author of 'The Natchez' and'Atala'; but he had a fresh and daring mind. He turned away from boththe emotional orgasms and the stage claptrap of his time, to breakground for all future American novelists. He antedated Cooper in thefield of Indian life and character; and he entered the regions of mysticsupernaturalism and the disordered human brain in advance ofHawthorne and Poe. 

That his choice of material was neither chance nor blind instinct, butdeliberate judgment and insight, is shown by the preface to 'EdgarHuntly, ' in which he sets forth his views:--

 "America has opened new views to the naturalist and politician, but has seldom furnished themes to the moral-pointer. That new springs of action and new motives of curiosity should operate, that the field of investigation opened to us by our own country should differ essentially from those which exist in Europe, may be readily conceived. The sources of amusement to the fancy and instruction to the heart that are peculiar to ourselves are equally numerous and inexhaustible. It is the purpose of this work to profit by some of these sources, to exhibit a series of adventures growing out of the conditions of our country, and connected with one of the most common and wonderful diseases of the human frame. Puerile superstition and exploded manners, Gothic castles and chimeras, are the materials usually employed for this end. The incidents of Indian hostility and the perils of the Western wilderness are far more suitable, and for a native of America to overlook these would admit of no apology. These therefore are in part the ingredients of this tale. "

Brown's was an uneventful career. He was much given to solitary ramblesand musings, varied by social intercourse with a few congenial friendsand the companionship of his affectionate family, and later, many hoursspent at his writing-desk or in an editorial chair. 

He was born January 17th, 1771, in Philadelphia, of good Quaker stock. Adelicate boyhood, keeping him away from the more active life of youthsof his own age, fostered, a love for solitude and a taste for reading. He received a good classical education; but poor health prevented himfrom pursuing his studies at college. At his family's wish he entered alaw office instead; but the literary instinct was strong within him. Literature at this time was scarcely considered a profession. Magazinecirculations were too limited for publishers to pay for contributions, and all an author usually got or expected to get was some copies todistribute among his friends. To please his prudent home circle, Browndallied for a while with the law; but a visit to New York, where he wascordially received by the members of the "Friendly Club, " opened upavenues of literary work to him, and he removed to New York in 1796 todevote himself to it. 

The first important work he produced was 'Wieland: or theTransformation' (1798). It shows at the outset Brown's characteristictraits--independence of British materials and methods. It is insubstance a powerful tale of ventriloquism operating on an unbalancedand superstitious mind. Its psychology is acute and searching; thecharacterization realistic and effective. His second book, 'Ormond: orthe Secret Witness' (1799), does not reach the level of 'Wieland. ' It ismore conventional, and not entirely independent of foreign models, especially Godwin, whom Brown greatly admired. A rapid writer, he soonhad the MS. Of his next novel in the hands of the publisher. The firstpart of 'Arthur Mervyn: or Memoirs of the Year 1793' came out in 1799, and the second part in 1800. It is the best known of his six novels. Though the scene is laid in Philadelphia, Brown embodied in it hisexperience of the yellow fever which raged in New York in 1799. Thepassage describing this epidemic can stand beside Defoe's or Poe's orManzoni's similar descriptions, for power in setting forth the horrorsof the plague. 

In the same year with the first volume of 'Arthur Mervyn' appeared'Edgar Huntly: or Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. ' Here he deals with thewild life of nature, the rugged solitudes, and the redskins, the fieldin which he was followed by Cooper. A thrilling scene in which apanther is chief actor was long familiar to American children in theirschool reading-books. 

In 1801 came out his last two novels, 'Clara Howard: In a Series ofLetters, ' and 'Jane Talbot. ' They are a departure from his previouswork: instead of dealing with uncanny subjects they treat of quietdomestic and social life. They show also a great advance on his previousbooks in constructive art. In 1799 Brown became editor of the MonthlyMagazine and American Review, and contributed largely to it. 

In the autumn of 1801 he returned to Philadelphia, to assume theeditorship of Conrad's Literary Magazine and American Review. The dutiesof this office suspended his own creative work, and he did not live totake up again the novelist's stylus. In 1806 he became editor of theAnnual Register. His genuine literary force is best proved by the factthat whatever periodical he took in charge, he raised its standard ofquality and made it a success for the time. 

He died in February, 1810. The work to which he had given the greaterpart of his time and strength, especially toward the end of his life, was in its nature not only transitory, but not of a sort to keep hisname alive. The magazines were children of a day, and the editor'srepute as such could hardly survive them long. The fame which belongs toCharles Brockden Brown, grudgingly accorded by a country that can illafford to neglect one of its earliest, most devoted, and most originalworkers, rests on his novels. Judged by standards of the present day, these are far from faultless. The facts are not very coherent, thediction is artificial in the fashion of the day. But when all is said, Brown was a rare story-teller; he interested his readers by the noveltyof his material, and he was quite objective in its treatment, neverobtruding his own personality. 'Wieland, ' 'Edgar Huntly, ' and 'ArthurMervyn, ' the trilogy of his best novels, are not to be contemned; and hehas the distinction of being in very truth the pioneer of_American_ letters. 

WIELAND'S STATEMENT

Theodore Wieland, the prisoner at the bar, was now called upon for hisdefense. He looked around him for some time in silence, and with a mildcountenance. At length he spoke:--

It is strange: I am known to my judges and my auditors. Who is therepresent a stranger to the character of Wieland? Who knows him not as ahusband, as a father, as a friend? Yet here am I arraigned as acriminal. I am charged with diabolical malice; I am accused of themurder of my wife and my children!

It is true, they were slain by me; they all perished by my hand. Thetask of vindication is ignoble. What is it that I am called tovindicate? and before whom?

You know that they are dead, and that they were killed by me. What morewould you have? Would you extort from me a statement of my motives? Haveyou failed to discover them already? You charge me with malice: but youreyes are not shut; your reason is still vigorous; your memory has notforsaken you. You know whom it is that you thus charge. The habits ofhis life are known to you; his treatment of his wife and his offspringis known to you; the soundness of his integrity and the unchangeablenessof his principles are familiar to your apprehension: yet you persist inthis charge! You lead me hither manacled as a felon; you deem me worthyof a vile and tormenting death!

Who are they whom I have devoted to death? My wife--the little ones thatdrew their being from me--that creature who, as she surpassed them inexcellence, claimed a larger affection than those whom naturalaffinities bound to my heart. Think ye that malice could have urged meto this deed? Hide your audacious fronts from the scrutiny of heaven. Take refuge in some cavern unvisited by human eyes. Ye may deplore yourwickedness or folly, but ye cannot expiate it. 

Think not that I speak for your sakes. Hug to your hearts thisdetestable infatuation. Deem me still a murderer, and drag me tountimely death. I make not an effort to dispel your illusion; I utternot a word to cure you of your sanguinary folly: but there are probablysome in this assembly who have come from far; for their sakes, whosedistance has disabled them from knowing me, I will tell what I havedone, and why. 

It is needless to say that God is the object of my supreme passion. Ihave cherished in his presence a single and upright heart. I havethirsted for the knowledge of his will. I have burnt with ardor toapprove my faith and my obedience. My days have been spent in searchingfor the revelation of that will; but my days have been mournful, becausemy search failed. I solicited direction; I turned on every side whereglimmerings of light could be discovered. I have not been whollyuninformed; but my knowledge has always stopped short of certainty. Dissatisfaction has insinuated itself into all my thoughts. My purposeshave been pure, my wishes indefatigable; but not till lately were thesepurposes thoroughly accomplished and these wishes fully gratified. 

I thank Thee, my Father, for Thy bounty; that Thou didst not ask a lesssacrifice than this; that Thou placedst me in a condition to testify mysubmission to Thy will! What have I withheld which it was Thy pleasureto exact? Now may I, with dauntless and erect eye, claim my reward, since I have given Thee the treasure of my soul. 

I was at my own house; it was late in the evening; my sister had gone tothe city, but proposed to return. It was in expectation of her returnthat my wife and I delayed going to bed beyond the usual hour; the restof the family, however, were retired. My mind was contemplative andcalm--not wholly devoid of apprehension on account of my sister'ssafety. Recent events, not easily explained, had suggested the existenceof some danger; but this danger was without a distinct form in ourimagination, and scarcely ruffled our tranquillity. 

Time passed, and my sister did not arrive. Her house is at some distancefrom mine, and though her arrangements had been made with a view ofresiding with us, it was possible that through forgetfulness, or theoccurrence of unforeseen emergencies, she had returned to herown dwelling. 

Hence it was conceived proper that I should ascertain the truth by goingthither. I went. On my way my mind was full of those ideas which relatedto my intellectual condition. In the torrent of fervid conceptions Ilost sight of my purpose. Sometimes I stood still; sometimes I wanderedfrom my path, and experienced some difficulty, on recovering from my fitof musing, to regain it. 

The series of my thoughts is easily traced. At first every vein beatwith raptures known only to the man whose parental and conjugal love iswithout limits, and the cup of whose desires, immense as it is, overflows with gratification. I know not why emotions that wereperpetual visitants should now have recurred with unusual energy. Thetransition was not new from sensations of joy to a consciousness ofgratitude. The Author of my being was likewise the dispenser of everygift with which that being was embellished. The service to which abenefactor like this was entitled could not be circumscribed. My socialsentiments were indebted to their alliance with devotion for all theirvalue. All passions are base, all joys feeble, all energies malignant, which are not drawn from this source. 

For a time my contemplations soared above earth and its inhabitants. Istretched forth my hands; I lifted my eyes, and exclaimed, "Oh, that Imight be admitted to thy presence! that mine were the supreme delight ofknowing Thy will and of performing it!--the blissful privilege of directcommunication with Thee, and of listening to the audible enunciation ofThy pleasure!

"What task would I not undertake, what privation would I not cheerfullyendure, to testify my love of Thee? Alas! Thou hidest Thyself from myview; glimpses only of Thy excellence and beauty are afforded me. Wouldthat a momentary emanation from Thy glory would visit me! that someunambiguous token of Thy presence would salute my senses!"

In this mood I entered the house of my sister. It was vacant. Scarcelyhad I regained recollection of the purpose that brought me hither. Thoughts of a different tendency had such an absolute possession of mymind, that the relations of time and space were almost obliterated frommy understanding. These wanderings, however, were restrained, and Iascended to her chamber. I had no light, and might have known byexternal observation that the house was without any inhabitant. Withthis, however, I was not satisfied. I entered the room, and the objectof my search not appearing, I prepared to return. The darkness requiredsome caution in descending the stair. I stretched out my hand to seizethe balustrade, by which I might regulate my steps. How shall I describethe lustre which at that moment burst upon my vision?

I was dazzled. My organs were bereaved of their activity. My eyelidswere half closed, and my hands withdrawn from the balustrade. A namelessfear chilled my veins, and I stood motionless. This irradiation did notretire or lessen. It seemed as if some powerful effulgence covered melike a mantle. I opened my eyes and found all about me luminous andglowing. It was the element of heaven that flowed around. Nothing but afiery stream was at first visible; but anon a shrill voice from behindcalled upon me to attend. 

I turned. It is forbidden to describe what I saw: words, indeed, wouldbe wanting to the task. The lineaments of that Being whose veil was nowlifted and whose visage beamed upon my sight, no hues of pencil or oflanguage can portray. As it spoke, the accents thrilled to myheart:--"Thy prayers are heard. In proof of thy faith, render me thywife. This is the victim I choose. Call her hither, and here let herfall. " The sound and visage and light vanished at once. 

What demand was this? The blood of Catharine was to be shed! My wife wasto perish by my hand! I sought opportunity to attest my virtue. Littledid I expect that a proof like this would have been demanded. 

"My wife!" I exclaimed: "O God! substitute some other victim. Make menot the butcher of my wife. My own blood is cheap. This will I pour outbefore Thee with a willing heart; but spare, I beseech Thee, thisprecious life, or commission some other than her husband to perform thebloody deed. "

In vain. The conditions were prescribed; the decree had gone forth, andnothing remained but to execute it. I rushed out of the house and acrossthe intermediate fields, and stopped not till I entered my own parlor. My wife had remained here during my absence, in anxious expectation ofmy return with some tidings of her sister. I had none to communicate. For a time I was breathless with my speed. This, and the tremors thatshook my frame, and the wildness of my looks, alarmed her. Sheimmediately suspected some disaster to have happened to her friend, andher own speech was as much overpowered by emotion as mine. She wassilent, but her looks manifested her impatience to hear what I had tocommunicate. I spoke, but with so much precipitation as scarcely to beunderstood; catching her at the same time by the arm, and forciblypulling her from her seat. 

"Come along with me; fly; waste not a moment; time will be lost, and thedeed will be omitted. Tarry not, question not, but fly with me. "

This deportment added afresh to her alarms. Her eyes pursued mine, andshe said, "What is the matter? For God's sake, what is the matter? Wherewould you have me go?"

My eyes were fixed upon her countenance while she spoke. I thought uponher virtues; I viewed her as the mother of my babes; as my wife. Irecalled the purpose for which I thus urged her attendance. My heartfaltered, and I saw that I must rouse to this work all my faculties. Thedanger of the least delay was imminent. 

I looked away from her, and, again exerting my force, drew her towardthe door. "You must go with me; indeed you must. "

In her fright she half resisted my efforts, and again exclaimed, "Goodheaven! what is it you mean? Where go? What has happened? Have youfound Clara?"

"Follow me and you will see, " I answered, still urging her reluctantsteps forward. 

"What frenzy has seized you? Something must needs have happened. Is shesick? Have you found her?"

"Come and see. Follow me and know for yourself. "

Still she expostulated and besought me to explain this mysteriousbehavior. I could not trust myself to answer her, to look at her; butgrasping her arm, I drew her after me. She hesitated, rather throughconfusion of mind than from unwillingness to accompany me. Thisconfusion gradually abated, and she moved forward, but with irresolutefootsteps and continual exclamations of wonder and terror. Herinterrogations of "What was the matter?" and "Whither was I going?" wereceaseless and vehement. 

It was the scope of my efforts not to think; to keep up a conflict anduproar in my mind in which all order and distinctness should be lost; toescape from the sensations produced by her voice. I was thereforesilent. I strove to abridge this interval by haste, and to waste all myattention in furious gesticulations. 

In this state of mind we reached my sister's door. She looked at thewindows and saw that all was desolate. "Why come we here? There isnobody here. I will not go in. "

Still I was dumb; but, opening the door, I drew her into the entry. Thiswas the allotted scene; here she was to fall. I let go her hand, andpressing my palms against my forehead, made one mighty effort to work upmy soul to the deed. 

In vain; it would not be; my courage was appalled, my arms nerveless. Imuttered prayers that my strength might be aided from above. Theyavailed nothing. 

Horror diffused itself over me. This conviction of my cowardice, myrebellion, fastened upon me, and I stood rigid and cold as marble. Fromthis state I was somewhat relieved by my wife's voice, who renewed hersupplications to be told why we come hither and what was the fate of mysister. .. . 

The fellness of a gloomy hurricane but faintly resembled the discordthat reigned in my mind. To omit this sacrifice must not be; yet mysinews had refused to perform it. No alternative was offered. To rebelagainst the mandate was impossible; but obedience would render me theexecutioner of my wife. My will was strong, but my limbs refusedtheir office. 

That accents and looks so winning should disarm me of my resolution wasto be expected. My thoughts were thrown anew into anarchy. I spread myhand before my eyes that I might not see her, and answered only bygroans. She took my other hand between hers, and pressing it to herheart, spoke with that voice which had ever swayed my will and waftedaway sorrow:--

"My friend! my soul's friend! tell me thy cause of grief. Do I not meritto partake with thee in thy cares? Am I not thy wife?"

This was too much. I broke from her embrace and retired to a corner ofthe room. In this pause, courage was once more infused into me. Iresolved to execute my duty. She followed me, and renewed her passionateentreaties to know the cause of my distress. I raised my head andregarded her with steadfast looks. I muttered something about death, andthe injunctions of my duty. At these words she shrunk back, and lookedat me with a new expression of anguish. After a pause, she clasped herhands, and exclaimed:---

"O Wieland! Wieland! God grant that I am mistaken! but something surelyis wrong. I see it; it is too plain; thou art undone--lost to me and tothyself. " At the same time she gazed on my features with intensestanxiety, in hope that different symptoms would take place. I replied toher with vehemence:--

"Undone! No; my duty is known, and I thank my God that my cowardice isnow vanquished and I have power to fulfill it. Catharine, I pity theweakness of thy nature; I pity thee, but must not spare. Thy life isclaimed from my hands; thou must die!"

Fear was now added to her grief. "What mean you? Why talk you of death?Bethink yourself, Wieland; bethink yourself, and this fit will pass. Oh, why came I hither? Why did you drag me hither?"

"I brought thee hither to fulfill a divine command. I am appointed thydestroyer, and destroy thee I must. " Saying this, I seized her wrists. She shrieked aloud, and endeavored to free herself from my grasp; buther efforts were vain. 

"Surely, surely, Wieland, thou dost not mean it. Am I not thy wife? andwouldst thou kill me? Thou wilt not; and yet--I see--thou art Wieland nolonger! A fury resistless and horrible possesses thee. Spareme--spare--help--help--"

Till her breath was stopped she shrieked for help, for mercy. When shecould speak no longer, her gestures, her looks appealed to mycompassion. My accursed hand was irresolute and tremulous. I meant thydeath to be sudden, thy struggles to be brief. Alas! my heart wasinfirm, my resolves mutable. Thrice I slackened my grasp, and life keptits hold, though in the midst of pangs. Her eyeballs started from theirsockets. Grimness and distortion took the place of all that used tobewitch me into transport and subdue me into reverence. I wascommissioned to kill thee, but not to torment thee with the foresight ofthy death; not to multiply thy fears and prolong thy agonies. Haggardand pale and lifeless, at length thou ceasedst to contend withthy destiny. 

This was the moment of triumph. Thus had I successfully subdued thestubbornness of human passions: the victim which had been demanded wasgiven; the deed was done past recall. 

I lifted the corpse in my arms and laid it on the bed. I gazed upon itwith delight. Such was the elation of my thoughts that I even broke intolaughter. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, "It is done! My sacred dutyis fulfilled! To that I have sacrificed, O my God, Thy last and bestgift, my wife!"

For a while I thus soared above frailty. I imagined I had set myselfforever beyond the reach of selfishness; but my imaginations were false. This rapture quickly subsided. I looked again at my wife. My joyousebullitions vanished, and I asked myself who it was whom I saw. Methought it could not be Catharine. It could not be the woman who hadlodged for years in my heart; who had slept nightly in my bosom; who hadborne in her womb, who had fostered at her breast, the beings who calledme father; whom I have watched with delight, and cherished with afondness ever new and perpetually growing; it could not be the same. Where was her bloom? These deadly and blood-suffused orbs but illresemble the azure and ecstatic tenderness of her eyes. The lucid streamthat meandered over that bosom, the glow of love that was wont to situpon that cheek, are much unlike these livid stains and this hideousdeformity. Alas! these were the traces of agony; the gripe of theassassin had been here!

I will not dwell upon my lapse into desperate and outrageous sorrow. Thebreath of heaven that sustained me was withdrawn, and I sunk into _mereman_. I leaped from the floor; I dashed my head against the wall; Iuttered screams of horror; I panted after torment and pain. Eternal fireand the bickerings of hell, compared with what I felt, were music and abed of roses. 

I thank my God that this degeneracy was transient--that He deigned oncemore to raise me aloft. I thought upon what I had done as a sacrifice toduty, and _was calm_. My wife was dead; but I reflected that though thissource of human consolation was closed, yet others were still open. Ifthe transports of a husband were no more, the feelings of a father hadstill scope for exercise. When remembrance of their mother should excitetoo keen a pang, I would look upon them and _be comforted_. 

While I revolved these ideas, new warmth flowed in upon my heart. I waswrong. These feelings were the growth of selfishness. Of this I was notaware; and to dispel the mist that obscured my perceptions, a neweffulgence and a new mandate were necessary. From these thoughts I wasrecalled by a ray that was shot into the room. A voice spake like thatwhich I had before heard:--"Thou hast done well. But all is notdone--the sacrifice is incomplete--thy children must be offered--theymust perish with their mother!--"

 * * * * *

Thou, Omnipotent and Holy! Thou knowest that my actions were conformableto Thy will. I know not what is crime; what actions are evil in theirultimate and comprehensive tendency, or what are good. Thy knowledge, asThy power, is unlimited. I have taken Thee for my guide, and cannot err. To the arms of Thy protection I intrust my safety. In the awards of Thyjustice I confide for my recompense. 

Come death when it will, I am safe. Let calumny and abhorrence pursue meamong men; I shall not be defrauded of my dues. The peace of virtue andthe glory of obedience will be my portion hereafter. 

JOHN BROWN

(1810-1882)

John Brown, the son of a secession-church minister, was born in Biggar, Lanarkshire, Scotland, September 22d, 1810, and died in Edinburgh, May11th, 1882. He was educated at the Edinburgh High School and at theUniversity, and graduated in medicine in 1833. For a time he was asurgeon's assistant to the great Dr. Syme, the man of whom he said "henever wasted a drop of ink or blood, " and whose character he has drawnin one of his most charming biographies. When he began to practice forhimself he gradually "got into a good connection, " and his patients madehim their confidant and adviser. He was considered a fine doctor too, for he had remarkable common-sense, and was said to be unerring indiagnosis. 

[Illustration: JOHN BROWN]

Dr. Brown did not, as is commonly believed, dislike his profession; butlater on he took a view of it which seemed non-progressive, and hissuccess as a writer no doubt interfered with his practice. His friendProfessor Masson draws a pleasant picture of him when he first settledin practice, as a dark-haired man with soft, fine eyes and a benignantmanner, the husband of a singularly beautiful woman, and much liked andsought after in the social circles of Edinburgh. This was partly owingto the charm of his conversation, and partly to the literary reputationhe had achieved through some articles on the Academy exhibition and onlocal artists. Though he had little technical training, he had an eyefor color and form, an appreciation of the artist's meaning, and aninstinct for discovering genius, as in the case of Noel Paton and DavidScott. He soon became an authority among artists, and he gave a newimpulse to national art. 

He contributed largely to the North British Review. In 1855 he published'Horæ Subsceivæ, ' which contained, among medical biography andmedico-literary papers, the immortal Scotch idyl, 'Rab and his Friends. 'Up to this time the unique personality of the doctor, with itsdelightful mixture of humor and sympathy, was known only to his owncircle. The appearance of 'Rab and his Friends' revealed it to theworld. Brief as it is in form, and simple in outline, Scotland hasproduced nothing so full of pure, pathetic genius since Scott. 

Another volume of 'Horæ Subsceivæ' appeared two years after, and someselections from it, and others from unpublished manuscript, were printedseparately in the volume entitled 'Spare Hours. ' They met with instantand unprecedented success. In a short time ten thousand copies of'Minchmoor' and 'James the Doorkeeper' were sold, fifteen thousandcopies of 'Pet Marjorie, ' and 'Rab' had reached its fiftieth thousand. With all this success and praise, and constantly besought by publishersfor his work, he could not be persuaded that his writings were of anypermanent value, and was reluctant to publish. In 1882 appeared a thirdvolume of the 'Horæ Subsceivæ, ' which included all his writings. A fewweeks after its publication he died. 

The Doctor's medical essays, which are replete with humor, are writtenin defense of his special theory, the distinction between the active andthe speculative mind. He thought there was too much science and toolittle intuitive sagacity in the world, and looked back longingly to theold-time common-sense, which he believed modern science had driven away. His own mind was anti-speculative, although he paid just tributes tophilosophy and science and admired their achievements. He stigmatizedthe speculations of the day as the "lust of innovation. " But the readercares little for the opinions of Dr. Brown as arguments: his subject isof little consequence if he will but talk. By the charm of hisstory-telling these dead Scotch doctors are made to live again. Thedeath-bed of Syme, for instance, is as pathetic as the wonderful paperon Thackeray's death; and to-day many a heart is sore for 'PetMarjorie, ' the ten-year-old child who died in Scotland almost a hundredyears ago. 

As an essayist, Dr. Brown belongs to the followers of Addison andCharles Lamb, and he blends humor, pathos, and quiet hopefulness with agrave and earnest dignity. He delighted, not like Lamb "in the habitableparts of the earth, " but in the lonely moorlands and pastoral hills, over which his silent, stalwart shepherds walked with swinging stride. He had a keen appreciation for anything he felt to be excellent: hisusual question concerning a stranger, either in literature or life, was"Has he wecht, sir?"--quoting Dr. Chalmers; and when he wanted to givethe highest praise, he said certain writing was "strong meat. " He had awarm enthusiasm for the work of other literary men: an artist himself, he was quick to appreciate and seize upon the witty thing or theexcellent thing wherever he found it, and he was eager to share hispleasure with the whole world. He reintroduced to the public HenryVaughn, the quaint seventeenth-century poet; he wrote a sympatheticmemoir of Arthur Hallam; he imported 'Modern Painters, ' and enlightenedEdinburgh as to its merits. His art papers were what Walter Pater wouldcall "appreciations, "--that is to say, he dwelt upon the beauties ofwhat he described rather than upon the defects. What he did not admirehe left alone. 

As the author of 'Rab' loved the lonely glens on Minchmoor and in theEnterkin, or where Queen Mary's "baby garden" shows its box-row borderamong the Spanish chestnuts of Lake Monteith, so he loved the Scottishcharacter, "bitter to the taste and sweet to the diaphragm": "Jeemes"the beadle, with his family worship when he himself was all the family;the old Aberdeen Jacobite people; Miss Stirling Graham of Duntrune, whoin her day bewitched Edinburgh; Rab, Ailie, and Bob Ainslie. Hischaracters are oddities, but are drawn without a touch of cynicism. Whatan amount of playful, wayward nonsense lies between these pages, andwhat depths of melancholy under the fun! Like Sir Walter, he had a greatlove for dogs, and never went out unaccompanied by one or two of them. They are the heroes of several of his sketches. 

Throughout the English-speaking world, he was affectionately known asDr. John Brown of Edinburgh. He stood aloof from political andecclesiastical controversies, and was fond of telling a story toillustrate how little reasoning went to forming partisans. A ministercatechizing a raw plowboy, after asking the first question, "Who madeyou?" and getting the answer "God, " asked him, "How do you know that Godmade you?" After some pause and head-scratching, the reply came, "Weel, sir, it's the clash [common talk] o' the kintry. " "Ay, " Brown added, "I'm afraid that a deal of our belief is founded on just 'the clash o'the kintry. '"

 * * * * *

MARJORIE FLEMING

From 'Spare Hours'

One November afternoon in 1810--the year in which 'Waverley' was resumedand laid aside again, to be finished off, its last two volumes in threeweeks, and made immortal in 1814; and when its author, by the death ofLord Melville, narrowly escaped getting a civil appointment inIndia--three men, evidently lawyers, might have been seen escaping likeschoolboys from the Parliament House, and speeding arm-in-arm down BankStreet and the Mound in the teeth of a surly blast of sleet. 

The three friends sought the _bield_ of the low wall old Edinburgh boysremember well, and sometimes miss now, as they struggle with the stoutwest wind. .. . 

The third we all know. What has he not done for every one of us? Whoelse ever, except Shakespeare, so diverted mankind, entertained andentertains a world so liberally, so wholesomely? We are fain to say noteven Shakespeare, for his is something deeper than diversion, somethinghigher than pleasure; and yet who would care to split this hair?

Had any one watched him closely before and after the parting, what achange he would see! The bright, broad laugh, the shrewd, jovial word, the man of the Parliament House and of the world; and next step, moody, the light of his eye withdrawn, as if seeing things that were invisible;his shut mouth like a child's, so impressionable, so innocent, so sad;he was now all within, as before he was all without; hence his broodinglook. As the snow blattered in his face, he muttered, "How it raves anddrifts! On-ding o' snaw, --ay, that's the word, --on-ding--" He was now athis own door, "Castle Street, No. 39. " He opened the door and wentstraight to his den; that wondrous workshop, where in one year, 1823, when he was fifty-two, he wrote 'Peveril of the Peak, ' 'QuentinDurward, ' and 'St. Ronan's Well, ' besides much else. We once took theforemost of our novelists--the greatest, we would say, since Scott--intothis room, and could not but mark the solemnizing effect of sittingwhere the great magician sat so often and so long, and looking out uponthat little shabby bit of sky, and that back green where faithful dogCamp lies. 

He sat down in his large green morocco elbow-chair, drew himself closeto his table, and glowered and gloomed at his writing apparatus, "a veryhandsome old box, richly carved, lined with crimson velvet, andcontaining ink-bottles, taper-stand, etc. , in silver, the whole in suchorder that it might have come from the silversmith's window half an hourbefore. " He took out his paper, then starting up angrily, said, "'Gospin, you jade, go spin. ' No, d---- it, it won't do, --

 "'My spinnin' wheel is auld and stiff, The rock o't wunna stand, sir; To keep the temper-pin in tiff Employs ower aft my hand, sir. '

I am off the fang. I can make nothing of 'Waverley' to-day; I'll awa'to Marjorie. Come wi' me, Maida, you thief. " The great creature roseslowly, and the pair were off, Scott taking a _maud_ (a plaid) with him. "White as a frosted plum-cake, by jingo!" said he, when he got to thestreet. Maida gamboled and whisked among the snow, and his master strodeacross to Young Street, and through it to 1 North Charlotte Street, tothe house of his dear friend, Mrs. William Keith, of Corstorphine Hill;niece of Mrs. Keith of Ravelston, of whom he said at her death, eightyears after, "Much tradition, and that of the best, has died with thisexcellent old lady, one of the few persons whose spirits, and_cleanliness_ and freshness of mind and body, made old age lovely anddesirable. "

Sir Walter was in that house almost every day, and had a key, so in heand the hound went, shaking themselves in the lobby. "Marjorie!Marjorie!" shouted her friend, "where are ye, my bonnie wee croodlin'doo?" In a moment a bright, eager child of seven was in his arms, and hewas kissing her all over. Out came Mrs. Keith. "Come your ways in, Wattie. " "No, not now. I am going to take Marjorie wi' me, and you maycome to your tea in Duncan Roy's sedan, and bring the bairn home in yourlap. " "Tak' Marjorie, and it _on-ding o' snaw_!" said Mrs. Keith. Hesaid to himself, "On-ding, '--that's odd, --that is the very word. Hoot, awa'! look here, " and he displayed the corner of his plaid, made to holdlambs [the true shepherd's plaid, consisting of two breadths sewedtogether, and uncut at one end, making a poke or _cul-de-sac_]. "Tak'your lamb, " said she, laughing at the contrivance, and so the Pet wasfirst well happit up, and then put, laughing silently, into the plaidneuk, and the shepherd strode off with his lamb, --Maida gambolingthrough the snow, and running races in her mirth. 

Didn't he face "the angry airt, " and make her bield his bosom, and intohis own room with her, and lock the door, and out with the warm rosylittle wifie, who took it all with great composure! There the tworemained for three or more hours, making the house ring with theirlaughter; you can fancy the big man's and Maidie's laugh. Having madethe fire cheery, he set her down in his ample chair, and standingsheepishly before her, began to say his lesson, which happened tobe, --"Ziccotty, diccotty, dock, the mouse ran up the clock; the clockstruck one, down the mouse ran, ziccotty, diccotty, dock. " This donerepeatedly till she was pleased, she gave him his new lesson, gravelyand slowly, timing it upon her small fingers, --he saying it after her, --

 "Wonery, twoery, tickery, seven; Alibi, crackaby, ten and eleven; Pin, pan, musky dan; Tweedle-um, twoddle-um, twenty-wan; Eerie, orie, ourie, You, are, out. "

He pretended to great difficulty, and she rebuked him with most comicalgravity, treating him as a child. He used to say that when he came toAlibi Crackaby he broke down, and Pin-Pan, Musky-Dan, Tweedle-umTwoddle-um made him roar with laughter. He said Musky-Dan especially wasbeyond endurance, bringing up an Irishman and his hat fresh from theSpice Islands and odoriferous Ind; she getting quite bitter in herdispleasure at his ill behavior and stupidness. 

Then he would read ballads to her in his own glorious way, the twogetting wild with excitement over 'Gil Morrice' or the 'Baron ofSmailholm'; and he would take her on his knee, and make her repeatConstance's speech in 'King John, ' till he swayed to and fro, sobbinghis fill. .. . 

Scott used to say that he was amazed at her power over him, saying toMrs. Keith, "She's the most extraordinary creature I ever met with, andher repeating of Shakespeare overpowers me as nothing else does. "

Thanks to the unforgetting sister of this dear child, who has much ofthe sensibility and fun of her who has been in her small grave thesefifty and more years, we have now before us the letters and journals ofPet Marjorie, --before us lies and gleams her rich brown hair, bright andsunny as if yesterday's, with the words on the paper, "Cut out in herlast illness, " and two pictures of her by her beloved Isabella, whom sheworshiped; there are the faded old scraps of paper, hoarded still, overwhich her warm breath and her warm little heart had poured themselves;there is the old water-mark, "Lingard, 1808. " The two portraits are verylike each other, but plainly done at different times; it is a chubby, healthy face, deep-set, brooding eyes, as eager to tell what is going onwithin as to gather in all the glories from without; quick with thewonder and the pride of life; they are eyes that would not be soonsatisfied with seeing; eyes that would devour their object, and yetchildlike and fearless. And that is a mouth that will not be soonsatisfied with love; it has a curious likeness to Scott's own, which hasalways appeared to us his sweetest, most mobile and speaking feature. 

There she is, looking straight at us as she did at him, --fearless andfull of love, passionate, wild, willful, fancy's child. 

 * * * * *

There was an old servant, Jeanie Robertson, who was forty years in hergrandfather's family. Marjorie Fleming--or as she is called in theletters and by Sir Walter, Maidie--was the last child she kept. Jeanie'swages never exceeded £3 a year, and when she left service she had saved£40. She was devotedly attached to Maidie, rather despising andill-using her sister Isabella, a beautiful and gentle child. Thispartiality made Maidie apt at times to domineer over Isabella. "Imention this, " writes her surviving sister, "for the purpose of tellingyou an instance of Maidie's generous justice. When only five years old, when walking in Raith grounds, the two children had run on before, andold Jeanie remembered they might come too near a dangerous mill-lade. She called to them to turn back. Maidie heeded her not, rushed all thefaster on, and fell, and would have been lost, had her sister not pulledher back, saving her life, but tearing her clothes. Jeanie flew onIsabella to 'give it her' for spoiling her favorite's dress; Maidierushed in between, crying out, 'Pay (whip) Maidie as much as you like, and I'll not say one word; but touch Isy, and I'll roar like a bull!'Years after Maidie was resting in her grave, my mother used to take meto the place, and told the story always in the exact same words. " ThisJeanie must have been a character. She took great pride in exhibitingMaidie's brother William's Calvinistic acquirements when nineteen monthsold, to the officers of a militia regiment then quartered in Kirkcaldy. This performance was so amusing that it was often repeated, and thelittle theologian was presented by them with a cap and feathers. Jeanie's glory was "putting him through the carritch" (catechism) inbroad Scotch, beginning at the beginning with "Wha made ye, ma bonnieman?" For the correctness of this and the three next replies, Jeanie hadno anxiety; but the tone changed to menace, and the closed _nieve_(fist) was shaken in the child's face as she demanded, "Of what are youmade?" "DIRT, " was the answer uniformly given. "Wull ye never learn tosay _dust_, ye thrawn deevil?" with a cuff from the opened hand, was theas inevitable rejoinder. 

Here is Maidie's first letter, before she was six, the spellingunaltered, and there are no "commoes. "

"MY DEAR ISA--I now sit down to answer all your kind and beloved letterswhich you was so good as to write to me. This is the first time I everwrote a letter in my Life. There are a great many Girls in the Squareand they cry just like a pig when we are under the painfull necessity ofputting it to Death. Miss Potune a Lady of my acquaintance praises medreadfully. I repeated something out of Dean Swift and she said I wasfit for the stage and you may think I was primmed up with majestickPride but upon my word I felt myselfe turn a little birsay--birsay is aword which is a word that William composed which is as you may suppose alittle enraged. This horrid fat simpliton says that my Aunt isbeautifull which is intirely impossible for that is not her nature. "

What a peppery little pen we wield! What could that have been out of thesardonic Dean? what other child of that age would have used "beloved" asshe does? This power of affection, this faculty of _be_loving, and wildhunger to be beloved, comes out more and more. She periled her all uponit, and it may have been as well--we know, indeed, that it was farbetter--for her that this wealth of love was so soon withdrawn to itsone only infinite Giver and Receiver. This must have been the law of herearthly life. Love was indeed "her Lord and King"; and it was perhapswell for her that she found so soon that her and our only Lord and KingHimself is Love. Here are bits from her Diary at Braehead:--

"The day of my existence here has been delightful and enchanting. OnSaturday I expected no less than three well-made Bucks the names of whomis here advertised. Mr. Geo. Crakey [Craigie], and Wm. Keith and Jn. Keith--the first is the funniest of every one of them. Mr. Crakey and Iwalked to Crakyhall [Craigiehall] hand in hand in Innocence andmatitation [meditation] sweet thinking on the kind love which flows inour tender hearted mind which is overflowing with majestic pleasure noone was ever so polite to me in the hole state of my existence. Mr. Craky you must-know is a great Buck and pretty good-looking. "

"I am at Ravelston enjoying nature's fresh air. The birds are singingsweetly--the calf doth frisk and nature shows her glorious face. "

Here is a confession:

"I confess I have been very more like a little young divil than acreature for when Isabella went up stairs to teach me religion and mymultiplication and to be good and all my other lessons I stamped with myfoot and threw my new hat which she had made on the ground and was sulkyand was dreadfully passionate, but she never whiped me but said Marjorygo into another room and think what a great crime you are committingletting your temper git the better of you. But I went so sulkily thatthe Devil got the better of me but she never never never whips me sothat I think I would be the better of it and the next time that I behaveill I think she should do it for she never does it. .. . Isabella hasgiven me praise for checking my temper for I was sulky even when she waskneeling an hole hour teaching me to write. "

Our poor little wifie, _she_ has no doubts of the personality of theDevil!--"Yesterday I behave extremely ill in God's most holy church forI would never attend myself nor let Isabella attend which was a greatcrime for she often, often tells me that when to or three are geatheredtogether God is in the midst of them, and it was the very same Divilthat tempted Job that tempted me I am sure; but he resisted Satan thoughhe had boils and many many other misfortunes which I have escaped. .. . Iam now going to tell you the horible and wretched plaege that mymultiplication gives me you can't conceive it the most Devilish thing is8 times 8 and 7 times 7 it is what nature itself cant endure. "

This is delicious; and what harm is there in her "Devilish"? it isstrong language merely; even old Rowland Hill used to say "he grudgedthe Devil those rough and ready words. " "I walked to that delightfulplace Crakyhall with a delightful young man beloved by all his friendsespecially by me his loveress, but I must not talk any more about himfor Isa said it is not proper for to speak of gentalmen but I will neverforget him! . .. I am very very glad that satan has not given me boilsand many other misfortunes--In the holy bible these words are writtenthat the Devil goes like a roaring lyon in search of his pray but thelord lets us escape from him but we" (_pauvre petite_!) "do not strivewith this awfull Spirit. .. . To-day I pronounced a word which shouldnever come out of a lady's lips it was that I called John a ImpudentBitch. I will tell you what I think made me in so bad a humor is I gotone or two of that bad sina [senna] tea to-day, "--a better excuse forbad humor and bad language than most. 

She has been reading the Book of Esther:--"It was a dreadful thing thatHaman was hanged on the very gallows which he had prepared for Mordecaito hang him and his ten sons thereon and it was very wrong and cruel tohang his sons for they did not commit the crime; _but then Jesus was notthen come to teach us to be merciful_. " This is wise and beautiful, --hasupon it the very dew of youth and holiness. Out of the mouths of babesand sucklings He perfects his praise. 

"This is Saturday and I am very glad of it because I have play half theDay and I get money too but alas I owe Isabella 4 pence for I am finned2 pence whenever I bite my nails. Isabella is teaching me to makesimmecoling nots of interrigations peorids commoes, etc. .. . As this isSunday I will meditate upon Senciable and Religious subjects. First Ishould be very thankful I am not a beggar. "

This amount of meditation and thankfulness seems to have been all shewas able for. 

"I am going to-morrow to a delightfull place, Braehead by name, belonging to Mrs. Crraford, where there is ducks cocks hens bubblyjocks2 dogs 2 cats and swine which is delightful. I think it is shocking tothink that the dog and cat should bear them" (this is a meditationphysiological) "and they are drowned after all. I would rather have aman-dog than a woman-dog, because they do not bear like woman-dogs; itis a hard case--it is shocking. I came here to enjoy natures delightfulbreath it is sweeter than a fial of rose oil. "

Braehead is the farm the historical Jock Howison asked and got from ourgay James the Fifth, "the gudeman o' Ballengiech, " as a reward for theservices of his flail when the King had the worst of it at Cramond Brigwith the gipsies. The farm is unchanged in size from that time, andstill in the unbroken line of the ready and victorious thrasher. Braehead is held on the condition of the possessor being ready topresent the King with a ewer and basin to wash his hands, Jock havingdone this for his unknown king after the _splore_; and when George theFourth came to Edinburgh, this ceremony was performed in silverat Holyrood. 

It is a lovely neuk, this Braehead, preserved almost as it was twohundred years ago. "Lot and his wife, " mentioned by Maidie, --twoquaintly cropped yew-trees, --still thrive; the burn runs as it did inher time, and sings the same quiet tune, --as much the same and asdifferent as _Now_ and _Then_. The house is full of old family relicsand pictures, the sun shining on them through the small deep windowswith their plate-glass; and there, blinking at the sun and chatteringcontentedly, is a parrot, that might, for its looks of eld, have been inthe ark, and domineered over and _deaved_ the dove. Everything about theplace is old and fresh. 

This is beautiful:--"I am very sorry to say that I forgot God--that isto say I forgot to pray to-day and Isabella told me that I should bethankful that God did not forget me--if he did, O what would become ofme if I was in danger and God not friends with me--I must go tounquenchable fire and if I was tempted to sin--how could I resist it Ono I will never do it again--no no--if I can help it. " (Canny weewifie!) "My religion is greatly falling off because I dont pray with somuch attention when I am saying my prayers, and my charecter is lostamong the Braehead people. I hope I will be religious again--but as forregaining my charecter I despare for it. " [Poor little "habitand repute"!]

Her temper, her passion, and her "badness" are almost daily confessedand deplored:--"I will never again trust to my own power, for I see thatI cannot be good without God's assistance--. I will not trust in my ownselfe, and Isa's health will be quite ruined by me--it will indeed. ""Isa has giving me advice, which is, that when I feel Satan beginning totempt me, that I flea him and he would flea me. " "Remorse is the worstthing to bear, and I am afraid that I will fall a marter to it. "

Poor dear little sinner!--Here comes the world again:--"In my travels Imet with a handsome lad named Charles Balfour Esq. , and from him I gotofers of marage--offers of marage, did I say? Nay plenty heard me. " Afine scent for "breach of promise"!

This is abrupt and strong:--"The Divil is curced and all works. 'Tis afine work 'Newton on the profecies. ' I wonder if there is another bookof poems comes near the Bible. The Divil always girns at the sight ofthe Bible. " "Miss Potune" (her "simpliton" friend) "is very fat; shepretends to be very learned. She says she saw a stone that dropt fromthe skies; but she is a good Christian. "

Here come her views on church government:--"An Anni-babtist is a thing Iam not a member of--I am a Pisplekan (Episcopalian) just now, and" (Oyou little Laodicean and Latitudinarian!) "a Prisbeteran atKirkcaldy"--_(Blandula! Vagula! coelum et animum mutas quoe trans mare_[i. E. , _trans Bodotriam] curris!_)--"my native town. "

"Sentiment is not what I am acquainted with as yet, though I wish it, and should like to practise it" (!) "I wish I had a great, great deal ofgratitude in my heart, in all my body. " There is a new novel published, named 'Self-Control' (Mrs. Brunton's)--"a very good maxim forsooth!"

This is shocking:--"Yesterday a marrade man, named Mr. John Balfour, Esq. , offered to kiss me, and offered to marry me, though the man" (afine directness this!) "was espused, and his wife was present and saidhe must ask her permission; but he did not. I think he was ashamed andconfounded before 3 gentelman--Mr. Jobson and 2 Mr. Kings. " "Mr. Banesters" (Bannister's) "Budjet is to-night; I hope it will be a goodone. A great many authors have expressed themselves too sentimentally. "You are right, Marjorie. "A Mr. Burns writes a beautiful song on Mr. Cunhaming, whose wife desarted him--truly it is a most beautiful one. ""I like to read the Fabulous historys, about the histerys of Robin, Dickey, flapsay, and Peccay, and it is very amusing, for some were goodbirds and others bad, but Peccay was the most dutiful and obedient toher parients. " "Thomson is a beautiful author, and Pope, but nothing toShakespear, of which I have a little knolege. 'Macbeth' is a prettycomposition, but awful one. " "The 'Newgate Calender' is veryinstructive. " (!)

"A sailor called here to say farewell; it must be dreadful to leave hisnative country when he might get a wife; or perhaps me, for I love himvery much. But O I forgot, Isabella forbid me to speak about love. " Thisantiphlogistic regimen and lesson is ill to learn by our Maidie, forhere she sins again:--"Love is a very papithatick thing" (it is almost apity to correct this into pathetic), "as well as troublesome andtiresome--but O Isabella forbid me to speak of it. "

Here are her reflections on a pineapple:--"I think the price of apineapple is very dear: it is a whole bright goulden guinea, that mighthave sustained a poor family. " Here is a new vernal simile:--"The hedgesare sprouting like chicks from the eggs when they are newly hatched or, as the vulgar say, _clacked_". "Doctor Swift's works are very funny; Igot some of them by heart. " "Moreheads sermons are I hear much praised, but I never read sermons of any kind; but I read novelettes and myBible, and I never forget it, or my prayers. " Brava, Marjorie!

She seems now, when still about six, to have broken out into song:--

 EPHIBOL [EPIGRAM OR EPITAPH--WHO KNOWS WHICH?] ON MY DEAR LOVE ISABELLA. 

 "Here lies sweet Isabel in bed, With a night-cap on her head; Her skin is soft, her face is fair, And she has very pretty hair; She and I in bed lies nice, And undisturbed by rats or mice. She is disgusted with Mr. Worgan, Though he plays upon the organ. Her nails are neat, her teeth are white, Her eyes are very, very bright. In a conspicuous town she lives, And to the poor her money gives. Here ends sweet Isabella's story, And may it be much to her glory. "

Here are some bits at random:--

 "Of summer I am very fond, And love to bathe into a pond: The look of sunshine dies away, And will not let me out to play; I love the morning's sun to spy Glittering through the casement's eye; The rays of light are very sweet, And puts away the taste of meat; The balmy breeze comes down from heaven, And makes us like for to be living. "

"The casawary is an curious bird, and so is the gigantic crane, and thepelican of the wilderness, whose mouth holds a bucket of fish and water. Fighting is what ladies is not qualyfied for, they would not make a goodfigure in battle or in a duel. Alas! we females are of little use to ourcountry. The history of all the malcontents as ever was hanged isamusing. " Still harping on the Newgate Calendar!

"Braehead is extremely pleasant to me by the companie of swine, geese, cocks, etc. , and they are the delight of my soul. "

"I am going to tell you of a melancholy story. A young turkie of two orthree months old, would you believe it, the father broke its leg, and hekilled another! I think he ought to be transported or hanged. "

"Queen Street is a very gay one, and so is Princes Street, for all thelads and lasses, besides bucks and beggars, parade there"

"I should like to see a play very much, for I never saw one in all mylife, and don't believe I ever shall; but I hope I can be contentwithout going to one. I can be quite happy without my desirebeing granted. "

"Some days ago Isabella had a terrible fit of the toothake, and shewalked with a long night-shift at dead of night like a ghost, and Ithought she was one. She prayed for nature's sweet restorer--balmysleep--but did not get it--a ghostly figure indeed she was, enough tomake a saint tremble. It made me quiver and shake from top to toe. Superstition is a very mean thing, and should be despised and shunned. "

Here is her weakness and her strength again:--"In the love-novels allthe heroines are very desperate. Isabella will not allow me to speakabout lovers and heroins, and 'tis too refined for my taste. " "MissEgward's [Edgeworth's] tails are very good, particularly some that arevery much adapted for youth (!) as Laz Laurance and Tarelton, FalseKeys, etc. , etc. "

"Tom Jones and Gray's Elegey in a country churchyard are both excellent, and much spoke of by both sex, particularly by the men. " Are ourMarjories now-a-days better or worse, because they cannot read 'TomJones' unharmed? More better than worse; but who among them can repeatGray's 'Lines on a Distant Prospect of Eton College' as couldour Maidie?

Here is some more of her prattle:--"I went into Isabella's bed to makeher smile like the Genius Demedicus [the Venus de' Medicis] or thestatute in an ancient Greece, but she fell asleep in my very face, atwhich my anger broke forth, so that I awoke her from a comfortable nap. All was now hushed up again, but again my anger burst forth at herbiding me get up. "

She begins thus loftily, --

 "Death the righteous love to see, But from it doth the wicked flee. "

Then suddenly breaks off [as if with laughter], --

"I am sure they fly as fast as their legs can carry them!"

 "There is a thing I love to see, That is our monkey catch a flee. "

 "I love in Isa's bed to lie, Oh, such a joy and luxury! The bottom of the bed I sleep, And with great care within I creep; Oft I embrace her feet of lillys, But she has goton all the pillys. Her neck I never can embrace, But I do hug her feet in place. "

How childish and yet how strong and free is her use of words!--"I lay atthe foot of the bed because Isabella said I disturbed her by continialfighting and kicking, but I was very dull, and continially at workreading the Arabian Nights, which I could not have done if I had sleptat the top. I am reading the Mysteries of Udolpho. I am much interestedin the fate of poor, poor Emily. "

Here is one of her swains:--

 "Very soft and white his cheeks, His hair is red, and gray his breeks; His tooth is like the daisy fair, His only fault is in his hair. "

This is a higher flight:--

 DEDICATED TO MRS. H. CRAWFORD BY THE AUTHOR, M. F. 

 "Three turkeys fair their last have breathed, And now this world forever leaved; Their father, and their mother too, They sigh and weep as well as you; Indeed, the rats their bones have crunched, Into eternity theire laanched. A direful death indeed they had, As wad put any parent mad; But she was more than usual calm: She did not give a single dam. "

This last word is saved from all sin by its tender age, not to speak ofthe want of the _n_. We fear "she" is the abandoned mother, in spite ofher previous sighs and tears. 

"Isabella says when we pray we should pray fervently, and not rattelover a prayer--for that we are kneeling at the foot-stool of our Lordand Creator, who saves us from eternal damnation, and fromunquestionable fire and brimston. "

She has a long poem on Mary Queen of Scots:--

 "Queen Mary was much loved by all, Both by the great and by the small, But hark! her soul to heaven doth rise? And I suppose she has gained a prize; For I do think she would not go Into the _awful_ place below. There is a thing that I must tell-- Elizabeth went to fire and hell! He who would teach her to be civil, It must be her great friend, the divil!"

She hits off Darnley well:--

 "A noble's son, --a handsome lad, -- By some queer way or other, had Got quite the better of her heart; With him she always talked apart: Silly he was, but very fair; A greater buck was not found there. "

"By some queer way or other": is not this the general case and themystery, young ladies and gentlemen? Goethe's doctrine of "electiveaffinities" discovered by our Pet Maidie!

 SONNET TO A MONKEY

 O lively, O most charming pug: Thy graceful air and heavenly mug! The beauties of his mind do shine, And every bit is shaped and fine. Your teeth are whiter than the snow; Your a great buck, your a great beau; Your eyes are of so nice a shape, More like a Christian's than an ape; Your cheek is like the rose's blume; Your hair is like the raven's plume; His nose's cast is of the Roman: He is a very pretty woman. I could not get a rhyme for Roman, So was obliged to call him woman. 

This last joke is good. She repeats it when writing of James the Secondbeing killed at Roxburgh:--

 He was killed by a cannon splinter, Quite in the middle of the winter; Perhaps it was not at that time, But I can get no other rhyme. 

Here is one of her last letters, dated Kirkcaldy, 12th October, 1811. You can see how her nature is deepening and enriching:--

 MY DEAR MOTHER--You will think that I entirely forget you but I assure you that you are greatly mistaken. I think of you always and often sigh to think of the distance between us two loving creatures of nature. We have regular hours for all our occupations first at 7 o'clock we go to the dancing and come home at 8 we then read our Bible and get our repeating and then play till ten then we get our music till 11 when we get our writing and accounts we sew from 12 till 1 after which I get my gramer and then work till five. At 7 we come and knit till 8 when we dont go to the dancing. This is an exact description. I must take a hasty farewell to her whom I love, reverence and doat on and who I hope thinks the same of

 MARJORY FLEMING. 

 P. S. --An old pack of cards (!) would be very exceptible. 

This other is a month earlier:--

 "MY DEAR LITTLE MAMA--I was truly happy to hear that you were all well. We are surrounded with measles at present on every side, for the Herons got it, and Isabella Heron was near Death's Door, and one night her father lifted her out of bed, and she fell down as they thought lifeless. Mr. Heron said, 'That lassie's deed noo'--'I'm no deed yet. ' She then threw up a big worm nine inches and a half long. I have begun dancing, but am not very fond of it, for the boys strikes and mocks me. --I have been another night at the dancing; I like it better. I will write to you as often as I can; but I am afraid not every week. _I long for you with the longings of a child to embrace you--to fold you in my arms. I respect you with all the respect due to a mother. You don't know how I love you. So I shall remain, your loving child_, M. FLEMING. "

What rich involution of love in the words marked! Here are some lines toher beloved Isabella, in July, 1811:--

 "There is a thing that I do want-- With you these beauteous walks to haunt; We would be happy if you would Try to come over if you could. Then I would all quite happy be _Now and for all eternity_. My mother is so very sweet, _And checks my appetite to eat_; My father shows us what to do; But O I'm sure that I want you. I have no more of poetry; O Isa do remember me, And try to love your Marjory. "

In a letter from "Isa" to

 "Miss Muff Maidie Marjory Fleming, favored by Rare Rear-Admiral Fleming, "

she says:--"I long much to see you, and talk over all our old storiestogether, and to hear you read and repeat. I am pining for my old friendCesario, and poor Lear, and wicked Richard. How is the dearMultiplication table going on? are you still as much attached to 9 times9 as you used to be?"

But this dainty, bright thing is about to flee, --to come "quick toconfusion. " The measles she writes of seized her, and she died on the19th of December, 1811. The day before her death, Sunday, she sat up inbed, worn and thin, her eye gleaming as with the light of a comingworld, and with a tremulous, old voice repeated the lines byBurns, --heavy with the shadow of death, and lit with the fantasy of thejudgment-seat, --the publican's prayer in paraphrase:--

 Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene

It is more affecting than we care to say to read her mother's andIsabella Keith's letters, written immediately after her death. Old andwithered, tattered and pale, they are now: but when you read them, howquick, how throbbing with life and love! how rich in that language ofaffection which only women and Shakespeare and Luther can use, --thatpower of detaining the soul over the beloved object and its loss. .. . 

In her first letter to Miss Keith, Mrs. Fleming says of her deadMaidie:--"Never did I behold so beautiful an object. It resembled thefinest wax-work. There was in the countenance an expression of sweetnessand serenity which seemed to indicate that the pure spirit hadanticipated the joys of heaven ere it quitted the mortal frame. To tellyou what your Maidie said of you would fill volumes; for you were theconstant theme of her discourse, the subject of her thoughts, and rulerof her actions. The last time she mentioned you was a few hours beforeall sense save that of suffering was suspended, when she said to Dr. Johnstone, 'If you will let me out at the New Year, I will be quitecontented. ' I asked what made her so anxious to get out then. 'I want topurchase a New Year's gift for Isa Keith with the sixpence you gave mefor being patient in the measles; and I would like to choose it myself. 'I do not remember her speaking afterwards, except to complain of herhead, till just before she expired, when she articulated, 'Omother! mother!'"

Do we make too much of this little child, who has been in her grave inAbbotshall. Kirkyard these fifty and more years? We may of hercleverness, --not of her affectionateness, her nature. What a picture the_animosa infans_ gives us of herself, her vivacity, her passionateness, her precocious love-making, her passion for nature, for swine, for allliving things, her reading, her turn for expression, her satire, herfrankness, her little sins and rages, her great repentances. We don'twonder Walter Scott carried her off in the neuk of his plaid, andplayed himself with her for hours. .. . 

We are indebted for the following--and our readers will be not unwillingto share our obligations--to her sister:--"Her birth was 15th January, 1803; her death 19th December, 1811. I take this from her Bibles. Ibelieve she was a child of robust health, of much vigor of body, andbeautifully formed arms, and until her last illness, never was an hourin bed. She was niece to Mrs. Keith, residing in No. 1 North CharlotteStreet, who was _not_ Mrs. Murray Keith, although very intimatelyacquainted with that old lady. .. . 

"As to my aunt and Scott, they were on a very intimate footing. He askedmy aunt to be godmother to his eldest daughter Sophia Charlotte. I had acopy of Miss Edgeworth's 'Rosamond' and 'Harry and Lucy' for long, whichwas 'a gift to Marjorie from Walter Scott, ' probably the first editionof that attractive series, for it wanted 'Frank, ' which is always nowpublished as part of the series under the title of 'Early Lessons. ' Iregret to say these little volumes have disappeared. "

Sir Walter was no relation of Marjorie's, but of the Keiths, through theSwintons; and like Marjorie, he stayed much at Ravelstone in his earlydays, with his grand-aunt Mrs. Keith. .. . 

We cannot better end than in words from this same pen:--"I have to askyou to forgive my anxiety in gathering up the fragments of Marjorie'slast days, but I have an almost sacred feeling to all that pertains toher. You are quite correct in stating that measles were the cause of herdeath. My mother was struck by the patient quietness manifested byMarjorie during this illness, unlike her ardent, impulsive nature; butlove and poetic feeling were unquenched. When lying very still, hermother asked her if there was anything she wished: 'Oh yes! if you wouldjust leave the room door open a wee bit, and play 'The Land o' theLeal, ' and I will lie and _think_, and enjoy myself' (this is just asstated to me by her mother and mine). Well, the happy day came, alike toparents and child, when Marjorie was allowed to come forth from thenursery to the parlor. It was Sabbath evening, and after tea. My father, who idolized this child, and never afterwards in my hearing mentionedher name, took her in his arms; and while walking up and down the room, she said, 'Father, I will repeat something to you; what would youlike?' He said, 'Just choose yourself, Maidie. ' She hesitated for amoment between the paraphrase 'Few are thy days, and full of woe, ' andthe lines of Burns already quoted, but decided on the latter, aremarkable choice for a child. The repeating these lines seemed to stirup the depths of feeling in her soul. She asked to be allowed to write apoem; there was a doubt whether it would be right to allow her, in caseof hurting her eyes. She pleaded earnestly, 'Just this once;' the pointwas yielded, her slate was given her, and with great rapidity she wrotean address of fourteen lines, 'To her loved cousin on the author'srecovery, ' her last work on earth:--

 'Oh! Isa, pain did visit me, I was at the last extremity; How often did I think of you, I wished your graceful form to view, To clasp you in my weak embrace, Indeed I thought I'd run my race: Good care, I'm sure, was of me taken, But still indeed I was much shaken. At last I daily strength did gain, And oh! at last, away went pain; At length the doctor thought I might Stay in the parlor all the night; I now continue so to do; Farewell to Nancy and to you. '

She went to bed apparently well, awoke in the middle of the night withthe old cry of woe to a mother's heart, 'My head, my head!' Three daysof the dire malady 'water in the head' followed, and the end came. "

 "Soft, silken primrose, fading timelessly!"

It is needless, it is impossible to add anything to this; the fervor, the sweetness, the flush of poetic ecstasy, the lovely and glowing eye, the perfect nature of that bright and warm intelligence, that darlingchild; Lady Nairne's words, and the old tune, stealing up from thedepths of the human heart, deep calling unto deep, gentle and stronglike the waves of the great sea hushing themselves to sleep in the dark;the words of Burns touching the kindred chord; her last numbers, "wildlysweet, " traced with thin and eager fingers, already touched by the lastenemy and friend, --_moriens canit_, --and that love which is so soon tobe her everlasting light, is her song's burden to the end. 

 "She set as sets the morning star, which goes Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides Obscured among the tempests of the sky, But melts away into the light of heaven. "

THE DEATH OF THACKERAY

From 'Spare Hours'

We cannot resist here recalling one Sunday evening in December, when hewas walking with two friends along the Dean road, to the west ofEdinburgh, --one of the noblest outlets to any city. It was a lovelyevening, --such a sunset as one never forgets: a rich dark bar of cloudhovered over the sun, going down behind the Highland hills, lying bathedin amethystine bloom; between this cloud and the hills there was anarrow slip of the pure ether, of a tender cowslip color, lucid, and asif it were the very body of heaven in its clearness; every objectstanding out as if etched upon the sky. The northwest end ofCorstorphine Hill, with its trees and rocks, lay in the heart of thispure radiance, and there a wooden crane, used in the quarry below, wasso placed as to assume the figure of a cross; there it was, unmistakable, lifted up against the crystalline sky. All three gazed atit silently. As they gazed, he gave utterance in a tremulous, gentle, and rapid voice, to what all were feeling, in the word "CALVARY!" Thefriends walked on in silence, and then turned to other things. All thatevening he was very gentle and serious, speaking, as he seldom did, ofdivine things, --of death, of sin, of eternity, of salvation; expressinghis simple faith in God and in his Savior. 

There is a passage at the close of the 'Roundabout Paper' No. 23, 'DeFinibus, ' in which a sense of the ebb of life is very marked; the wholepaper is like a soliloquy. It opens with a drawing of Mr. Punch, withunusually mild eye, retiring for the night; he is putting out hishigh-heeled shoes, and before disappearing gives a wistful look into thepassage, as if bidding it and all else good-night. He will be in bed, his candle out, and in darkness, in five minutes, and his shoes foundnext morning at his door, the little potentate all the while in hisfinal sleep. The whole paper is worth the most careful study; it revealsnot a little of his real nature, and unfolds very curiously the secretof his work, the vitality and abiding power of his own creations; how he"invented a certain Costigan, out of scraps, heel-taps, odds and ends ofcharacters, " and met the original the other day, without surprise, in atavern parlor. The following is beautiful: "Years ago I had a quarrelwith a certain well-known person (I believed a statement regarding himwhich his friends imparted to me, and which turned out to be quiteincorrect). To his dying day that quarrel was never quite made up. Isaid to his brother, 'Why is your brother's soul still dark against me?_It is I who ought to be angry and unforgiving, for I was in thewrong_. '" _Odisse quem læseris_ was never better contravened. But whatwe chiefly refer to now is the profound pensiveness of the followingstrain, as if written with a presentiment of what was not then very faroff:--"Another Finis written; another milestone on this journey frombirth to the next world. Sure it is a subject for solemn cogitation. Shall we continue this story-telling business, and be voluble to the endof our age?" "Will it not be presently time, O prattler, to hold yourtongue?" And thus he ends:--

"Oh, the sad old pages, the dull old pages; oh, the cares, the _ennui_, the squabbles, the repetitions, the old conversations over and overagain! But now and again a kind thought is recalled, and now and again adear memory. Yet a few chapters more, and then the last; after which, behold Finis itself comes to an end, and the Infinite begins. "

 * * * * *

He had been suffering on Sunday from an old and cruel enemy. He fixedwith his friend and surgeon to come again on Tuesday, but with thatdread of anticipated pain which is a common condition of sensibility andgenius, he put him off with a note from "yours unfaithfully, W. M. T. " Hewent out on Wednesday for a little, and came home at ten. He went to hisroom, suffering much, but declining his man's offer to sit with him. Hehated to make others suffer. He was heard moving, as if in pain, abouttwelve, on the eve of--

 "That happy morn Wherein the Son of Heaven's eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin-mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring. "

Then all was quiet, and then he must have died--in a moment. Nextmorning his man went in, and opening the windows found his master dead, his arms behind his head, as if he had tried to take one more breath. Wethink of him as of our Chalmers, found dead in like manner: the samechildlike, unspoiled, open face; the same gentle mouth; the samespaciousness and softness of nature; the same look of power. What athing to think of, --his lying there alone in the dark, in the midst ofhis own mighty London; his mother and his daughters asleep, and, it maybe, dreaming of his goodness. God help them, and us all! What wouldbecome of us, stumbling along this our path of life, if we could not, atour utmost need, stay ourselves on Him?

Long years of sorrow, labor, and pain had killed him before his time. Itwas found after death how little life he had to live. He looked alwaysfresh, with that abounding silvery hair, and his young, almost infantineface, but he was worn to a shadow, and his hands wasted as if by eightyyears. With him it is the end of Ends; finite is over and, infinitebegun. What we all felt and feel can never be so well expressed as inhis own words of sorrow for the early death of Charles Buller:--

 "Who knows the inscrutable design? Blest He who took and He who gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That's free to give or to recall. "

CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE (ARTEMUS WARD)

(1834-1867)

BY CHARLES F. JOHNSON

Charles Farrar Brown, better known to the public of thirty years agounder his pen-name of Artemus Ward, was born in the little village ofWaterford, Maine, on the 26th day of April, 1834. Waterford is a quietvillage of about seven hundred inhabitants, lying among the foot-hillsof the White Mountains. When Browne was a child it was a station on thewestern stage-route, and an important depot for lumbermen's supplies. Since the extension of railroads northerly and westerly from theseaboard, it has however shared the fate of many New England villages inbeing left on one side of the main currents of commercial activity, andgradually assuming a character of repose and leisure, in many regardsmore attractive than the life and bustle of earlier days. Many personsare still living there who remember the humorist as a quaint and tricksyboy, alternating between laughter and preternatural gravity, and of asurprising ingenuity in devising odd practical jokes in which goodnature so far prevailed that even the victims were too much amused to bevery angry. 

[Illustration: Charles F. Browne]

On both sides, he came from original New England stock; and although hewas proud of his descent from a very ancient English family, indeference to whom he wrote his name with the final "e, " he felt greaterpride in his American ancestors, and always said that they were genuineand primitive Yankees, --people of intelligence, activity, and integrityin business, but entirely unaffected by new-fangled ideas. It isinteresting to notice that Browne's humor was hereditary on the paternalside, his father especially being noted for his quaint sayings andharmless eccentricities. His cousin Daniel many years later bore astrong resemblance to what Charles had been, and he too possessed akindred humorous faculty and told a story in much the same solemnmanner, bringing out the point as if it were something entirelyirrelevant and unimportant and casually remembered. The subject of thissketch, however, was the only member of the family in whom a love forthe droll and incongruous was a controlling disposition. As isfrequently the case, a family trait was intensified in one individual tothe point where talent passes over into genius. 

On his mother's side, too, Browne was a thorough-bred New-Englander. Hismaternal grandfather, Mr. Calvin Farrar, was a man of influence in townand State, and was able to send two of his sons to Bowdoin College. Ihave mentioned Browne's parentage because his humor is so essentiallyAmerican. Whether this consists in a peculiar gravity in the humorousattitude towards the subject, rather than playfulness, or in a tendencyto exaggerated statement, or in a broad humanitarian standpoint, or in acertain flavor given by a blending of all these, it is very difficult todecide. Probably the peculiar standpoint is the distinguishing note, andAmerican humor is a product of democracy. 

Humor is as difficult of definition as is poetry. It is an intimatequality of the mind, which predisposes a man to look for remote andunreal analogies and to present them gravely as if they were valid. Itsees that many of the objects valued by men are illusions, and itexpresses this conviction by assuming that other manifest trifles areimportant. It is the deadly enemy of sentimentality and affectation, forits vision is clear. Although it turns everything topsy-turvy in sport, its world is not a chaos nor a child's play-ground, for humor is basedon keen perception of truth. There is no method--except the highestpoetic treatment--which reveals so distinctly the falsehoods andhypocrisies of the social and economic order as the _reductio adabsurdum_ of humor; for all human institutions have their ridiculoussides, which astonish and amuse us when pointed out, but from viewingwhich we suddenly become aware of relative values before misunderstood. But just as poetry may degenerate into a musical collection of words andpainting into a decorative association of colors, so humor maydegenerate into the merely comic or amusing. The laugh which true humorarouses is not far removed from tears. Humor indeed is not alwaysassociated with kindliness, for we have the sardonic humor of Carlyleand the savage humor of Swift; but it is naturally dissociated fromegotism, and is never more attractive than when, as in the case ofCharles Lamb and Oliver Goldsmith, it is based on a loving and generousinterest in humanity. 

Humor, must rest on a broad human foundation, and cannot be narrowed tothe notions of a certain class. But in most English humor, --as indeed inall English literature except the very highest, --the social class towhich the writer does not belong is regarded _ab extra_. In Punch, forinstance, not only are servants always given a conventional set offeatures, but they are given conventional minds, and the jokes are basedon a hypothetical conception of personality. Dickens was a greathumorist, and understood the nature of the poor because he had been oneof them; but his gentlemen and ladies are lay figures. Thackeray'sstudies of the flunky are capital; but he studies him _qua flunky_, as anaturalist might study an animal, and hardly ranks him _sub speciehumanitatis_. But to the American humorist all men are primarily men. The waiter and the prince are equally ridiculous to him, because in eachhe finds similar incongruities between the man and his surroundings; butin England there is a deep impassable gulf between the man at the tableand the man behind his chair. This democratic independence of externaland adventitious circumstance sometimes gives a tone of irreverence toAmerican persiflage, and the temporary character of class distinctionsin America undoubtedly diminishes the amount of literary material "insight" but when, as in the case of Browne and Clemens, there is in thehumorist's mind a basis of reverence for things and persons that arereally reverend, it gives a breadth and freedom to the humorousconception that is distinctively American. 

We put Clemens and Browne in the same line, because in reading a page ofeither we feel at once the American touch. Browne of course is not to becompared to Clemens in affluence or in range in depicting humorouscharacter-types; but it must be remembered that Clemens has lived thirtyactive years longer than his predecessor did. Neither has written a linethat he would wish to blot for its foul suggestion, or because itridiculed things that were lovely and of good report. Both were educatedin journalism, and came into direct contact with the strenuous andrealistic life of labor. And to repeat, though one was born and bredwest of the Mississippi and the other far "down east, " both aredistinctly American. Had either been born and passed his childhoodoutside our magic line, this resemblance would not have existed. And yetwe cannot say precisely wherein this likeness lies, nor what caused it;so deep, so subtle, so pervading is the influence of nationality. Buttheir original expressions of the American humorous tone are worth tenthousand literary echoes of Sterne or Lamb or Dickens or Thackeray. 

The education of young Browne was limited to the strictly preparatoryyears. At the age of thirteen he was forced by the death of his fatherto try to earn his living. When about fourteen, he was apprenticed to aMr. Rex, who published a paper at Lancaster, New Hampshire. He remainedthere about a year, then worked on various country papers, and finallypassed three years in the printing-house of Snow and Wilder, Boston. Hethen went to Ohio, and after working for some months on the TiffinAdvertiser, went to Toledo, where he remained till the fall of 1857. Thence he went to Cleveland, Ohio, as local editor of the Plain Dealer. Here appeared the humorous letters signed "Artemus Ward" and written inthe character of an itinerant showman. In 1860 he went to New York aseditor of the comic journal Vanity Fair. 

His reputation grew steadily, and his first volume, 'Artemus Ward, HisBook, ' was brought out in 1862. In 1863 he went to San Francisco by wayof the Isthmus and returned overland. This journey was chronicled in ashort volume, 'Artemus Ward, His Travels. ' He had already undertaken acareer of lecturing, and his comic entertainments, given in a stylepeculiarly his own, became very popular. The mimetic gift is frequentlyfound in the humorist; and Browne's peculiar drawl, his profound gravityand dreamy, far-away expression, the unexpected character of his jokesand the surprise with which he seemed to regard the audience, made acombination of a delightfully quaint absurdity. Browne himself was avery winning personality, and never failed to put his audience in goodhumor. None who knew him twenty-nine years ago think of him withouttenderness. In 1866 he visited England, and became almost as popularthere as lecturer and writer for Punch. He died from a pulmonary troublein Southampton, March 6th, 1867, being not quite thirty-three years old. He was never married. 

When we remember that a large part of Browne's mature life was taken upin learning the printer's trade, in which he became a master, we mustdecide that he had only entered on his career as humorous writer. Muchof what he wrote is simply amusing, with little depth or power ofsuggestion; it is comic, not humorous. He was gaining the ear of thepublic and training his powers of expression. What he has left consistsof a few collections of sketches written for a daily paper. But thesubjoined extracts will show, albeit dimly, that he was more than ajoker, as under the cap and bells of the fool in Lear we catch a glimpseof the face of a tender-hearted and philosophic friend. Browne's naturewas so kindly and sympathetic, so pure and manly, that after he hadachieved a reputation and was relieved from immediate pecuniarypressure, he would have felt an ambition to do some worthy work and taketime to bring out the best that was in him. As it is, he had only triedhis 'prentice hand. Still, the figure of the old showman, though notvery solidly painted, is admirably done. He is a sort of sublimated andunoffensive Barnum; perfectly consistent, permeated with hisprofessional view of life, yet quite incapable of anything underhand ormean; radically loyal to the Union, appreciative of the nature of hisanimals, steady in his humorous attitude toward life: and above all, nota composite of shreds and patches, but a personality. Slight as he is, and unconscious and unpracticed as is the art that went to his creation, he is one of the humorous figures of all literature; and old Sir JohnFalstaff, Sir Roger de Coverley, Uncle Toby, and Dr. Primrose will notdisdain to admit him into their company; for he too is a man, not anabstraction, and need not be ashamed of his parentage nor doubtful ofhis standing among the "children of the men of wit. "

EDWIN FORREST AS OTHELLO

Durin a recent visit to New York the undersined went to see EdwinForrest. As I am into the moral show biziness myself I ginrally go toBarnum's moral museum, where only moral peeple air admitted, particklyon Wednesday arternoons. But this time I thot I'd go and see Ed. Ed hasbin actin out on the stage for many years. There is varis 'pinions abouthis actin, Englishmen ginrally bleevin that he's far superior to MisterMacready; but on one pint all agree, & that is that Ed draws like asix-ox team. Ed was actin at Niblo's Garding, which looks considerablemore like a parster than a garding, but let that pars. I sot down in thepit, took out my spectacles and commenced peroosin the evenin's bill. The awjince was all-fired large & the boxes was full of the elitty ofNew York. Several opery glasses was leveled at me by Gotham's fairestdarters, but I didn't let on as tho I noticed it, tho mebby I did takeout my sixteen-dollar silver watch & brandish it round more than wasnecessary. But the best of us has our weaknesses & if a man has gewelrylet him show it. As I was peroosin the bill a grave young man who sotnear me axed me if I'd ever seen Forrest dance the Essence of OldVirginny. "He's immense in that, " sed the young man. "He also does afair champion jig, " the young man continnered, "but his Big Thing is theEssence of Old Virginny. " Sez I, "Fair youth, do you know what I'd dowith you if you was my sun?"

"No, " sez he. 

"Wall, " sez I, "I'd appint your funeral to-morrow arternoon, & the_korps should be ready_. You're too smart to live on this yerth. "

He didn't try any more of his capers on me. But another pussylanermussindividooul in a red vest and patent leather boots told me his name wasBill Astor & axed me to lend him 50 cents till early in the mornin. Itold him I'd probly send it round to him before he retired to hisvirtoous couch, but if I didn't he might look for it next fall as soonas I'd cut my corn. The orchestry was now fiddling with all their might& as the peeple didn't understan anything about it they applaudidversifrusly. Presently old Ed cum out. The play was Otheller or More ofVeniss. Otheller was writ by Wm. Shakspeer. The seene is laid in Veniss. Otheller was a likely man & was a ginral in the Veniss army. He elopedwith Desdemony, a darter of the Hon. Mr. Brabantio, who represented oneof the back districks in the Veneshun legislater. Old Brabantio was asmad as thunder at this & tore round considerable, but finally cooleddown, tellin Otheller, howsoever, that Desdemony had come it over herpar, & that he had better look out or she'd come it over him likewise. Mr. And Mrs. Otheller git along very comfortable-like for a spell. Sheis sweet-tempered and lovin--a nice, sensible female, never goin in forhe-female conventions, green cotton umbrellers, and pickled beats. Otheller is a good provider and thinks all the world of his wife. Shehas a lazy time of it, the hird girl doin all the cookin and washin. Desdemony in fact don't have to git the water to wash her own handswith. But a low cuss named Iago, who I bleeve wants to git Otheller outof his snug government birth, now goes to work & upsets the Othellerfamily in most outrajus stile. Iago falls in with a brainless youthnamed Roderigo & wins all his money at poker. (Iago allers played foul. )He thus got money enuff to carry out his onprincipled skeem. MikeCassio, a Irishman, is selected as a tool by Iago. Mike was a cleverfeller & a orficer in Otheller's army. He liked his tods too well, howsoever, & they floored him as they have many other promisin youngmen. Iago injuces Mike to drink with him, Iago slily throwin his whiskeyover his shoulder. Mike gits as drunk as a biled owl & allows that hecan lick a yard full of the Veneshun fancy before breakfast, withoutsweatin a hair. He meets Roderigo & proceeds for to smash him. A fellernamed Mentano undertakes to slap Cassio, when that infatooated personruns his sword into him. That miserble man, Iago, pretends to be verysorry to see Mike conduck hisself in this way & undertakes to smooth thething over to Otheller, who rushes in with a drawn sword & wants to knowwhat's up. Iago cunningly tells his story & Otheller tells Mike that hethinks a good deal of him but that he cant train no more in hisregiment. Desdemony sympathises with poor Mike & interceds for him withOtheller. Iago makes him bleeve she does this because she thinks more ofMike than she does of hisself. Otheller swallers Iagos lyin tail & goesto makin a noosence of hisself ginrally. He worries poor Desdemonyterrible by his vile insinuations & finally smothers her to deth with apiller. Mrs. Iago comes in just as Otheller has finished the fowl deed &givs him fits right & left, showin him that he has been orfully gulledby her miserble cuss of a husband. Iago cums in & his wife commencesrakin him down also, when he stabs her. Otheller jaws him a spell & thencuts a small hole in his stummick with his sword. Iago pints toDesdemony's deth bed & goes orf with a sardonic smile onto hiscountenance. Otheller tells the peple that he has dun the state someservice & they know it; axes them to do as fair a thing as they can forhim under the circumstances, & kills hisself with a fish-knife, which isthe most sensible thing he can do. This is a breef skedule of thesynopsis of the play. 

Edwin Forrest is a grate acter. I thot I saw Otheller before me all thetime he was actin &, when the curtin fell, I found my spectacles wasstill mistened with salt-water, which had run from my eyes while poorDesdemony was dyin. Betsy Jane--Betsy Jane! let us pray that ourdomestic bliss may never be busted up by a Iago!

Edwin Forrest makes money actin out on the stage. He gits five hundreddollars a nite & his board & washin. I wish I had such a Forrest inmy Garding!

Copyrighted by G. W. Dillingham and Company, New York. 

HIGH-HANDED OUTRAGE AT UTICA

In the fall of 1856 I showed my show in Utiky, a trooly grate sitty inthe State of New York. 

The people gave me a cordyal recepshun. The press was loud in herprases. 

1 day as I was givin a descripshun of my Beests and Snaiks in my usualflowry stile, what was my skorn & disgust to see a big burly feller walkup to the cage containin my wax figgers of the Lord's Last Supper, andcease Judas Iscariot by the feet and drag him out on the ground. He thencommenced fur to pound him as hard as he cood. 

"What under the son are you abowt?" cried I. 

Sez he, "What did you bring this pussylanermus cuss here fur?" & he hitthe wax figger another tremenjus blow on the hed. 

Sez I, "You egrejus ass that air's a wax figger--a representashun of thefalse 'Postle. "

Sez he, "That's all very well fur you to say, but I tell you, old man, that Judas Iscariot can't show hisself in Utiky with impunerty by a darnsite!" with which observashun he kaved in Judassis hed. The young manbelonged to 1 of the first famerlies in Utiky. I sood him and the Joorybrawt in a verdick of Arson in the 3d degree. 

Copyrighted by G. W. Dillingham and Company, New York. 

AFFAIRS ROUND THE VILLAGE GREEN

And where are the friends of my youth? I have found one of 'em, certainly. I saw him ride in a circus the other day on a bareback horse, and even now his name stares at me from yonder board-fence in green andblue and red and yellow letters. Dashington, the youth with whom I usedto read the able orations of Cicero, and who as a declaimer onexhibition days used to wipe the rest of us boys pretty handsomelyout--well, Dashington is identified with the halibut and cod interests--drives a fish-cart, in fact, from a certain town on the coast backinto the interior. Hurburtson--the utterly stupid boy--the lunkhead whonever had his lesson, he's about the ablest lawyer a sister State canboast. Mills is a newspaper man, and is just now editing a Major Generaldown South. Singlingson, the sweet-faced boy whose face was alwayswashed and who was never rude, _he_ is in the penitentiary for puttinghis uncle's autograph to a financial document. Hawkins, the clergyman'sson, is an actor; and Williamson, the good little boy who divided hisbread and butter with the beggar-man, is a failing merchant, and makesmoney by it. Tom Slink, who used to smoke Short Sixes and get acquaintedwith the little circus boys, is popularly supposed to be the proprietorof a cheap gaming establishment in Boston, where the beautiful butuncertain prop is nightly tossed. Be sure the Army is represented bymany of the friends of my youth, the most of whom have given a goodaccount of themselves. 

But Chalmerson hasn't done much. No, Chalmerson is rather of a failure. He plays on the guitar and sings love-songs. Not that he is a bad man--akinder-hearted creature never lived, and they say he hasn't yet got overcrying for his little curly-haired sister who died ever so long ago. Buthe knows nothing about business, politics, the world, and those things. He is dull at trade--indeed, it is the common remark that "Everybodycheats Chalmerson. " He came to the party the other evening and broughthis guitar. They wouldn't have him for a tenor in the opera, certainly, for he is shaky in his upper notes; but if his simple melodies didn'tgush straight from the heart! why, even my trained eyes were wet! Andalthough some of the girls giggled, and some of the men seemed to pityhim, I could not help fancying that poor Chalmerson was nearer heaventhan any of us all. 

Copyrighted by G. W. Dillingham and Company. 

MR. PEPPER

From 'Artemus Ward: His Travels'

My arrival at Virginia City was signalized by the following incident:--

I had no sooner achieved my room in the garret of the InternationalHotel than I was called upon by an intoxicated man, who said he was anEditor. Knowing how rare it is for an Editor to be under the blightinginfluence of either spirituous or malt liquors, I received thisstatement doubtfully. But I said:

"What name?"

"Wait!" he said, and went out. 

I heard him pacing unsteadily up and down the hall outside. 

In ten minutes he returned, and said, "Pepper!"

Pepper was indeed his name. He had been out to see if he could rememberit, and he was so flushed with his success that he repeated it joyouslyseveral times, and then, with a short laugh, he went away. 

I had often heard of a man being "so drunk that he didn't know what townhe lived in, " but here was a man so hideously inebriated that he didn'tknow what his name was. 

I saw him no more, but I heard from him. For he published a notice of mylecture, in which he said that I had _a dissipated air!_

HORACE GREELEY'S RIDE TO PLACERVILLE

From 'Artemus Ward: His Travels'

When Mr. Greeley was in California, ovations awaited him at every town. He had written powerful leaders in the Tribune in favor of the PacificRailroad, which had greatly endeared him to the citizens of the GoldenState. And therefore they made much of him when he went to see them. 

At one town the enthusiastic populace tore his celebrated white coat topieces and carried the pieces home to remember him by. 

The citizens of Placerville prepared to fête the great journalist, and an extra coach with extra relays of horses was charteredof the California Stage Company to carry him from Folsom toPlacerville--distance, forty miles. The extra was in some way delayed, and did not leave Folsom until late in the afternoon. Mr. Greeley was tobe fêted at seven o'clock that evening by the citizens of Placerville, and it was altogether necessary that he should be there by that time. Sothe Stage Company said to Henry Monk, the driver of the extra, "Henry, this great man must be there by seven to-night. " And Henry answered, "The great man shall be there. "

The roads were in an awful state, and during the first few miles out ofFolsom slow progress was made. 

"Sir, " said Mr. Greeley, "are you aware that I must be in Placerville atseven o'clock to-night?"

"I've got my orders!" laconically replied Henry Monk. 

Still the coach dragged slowly forward. 

"Sir, " said Mr. Greeley, "this is not a trifling matter. I _must_ bethere at seven!"

Again came the answer, "I've got my orders!"

But the speed was not increased, and Mr. Greeley chafed away anotherhalf-hour; when, as he was again about to remonstrate with the driver, the horses suddenly started into a furious run, and all sorts ofencouraging yells filled the air from the throat of Henry Monk. 

"That is right, my good fellow, " said Mr. Greeley. "I'll give you tendollars when we get to Placerville. Now we are going!"

They were indeed, and at a terrible speed. 

Crack, crack! went the whip, and again "that voice" split the air, "Getup! Hi-yi! G'long! Yip-yip. "

And on they tore over stones and ruts, up hill and down, at a rate ofspeed never before achieved by stage horses. 

Mr. Greeley, who had been bouncing from one end of the stage to theother like an India-rubber ball, managed to get his head out of thewindow, when he said:--

"Do-on't-on't-on't you-u-u think we-e-e-e shall get there by seven if wedo-on't-on't go so fast?"

"I've got my orders!" That was all Henry Monk said. And on tore thecoach. 

It was becoming serious. Already the journalist was extremely sore fromthe terrible jolting--and again his head "might have been seen fromthe window. "

"Sir, " he said, "I don't care-care-air if we _don't_ get there atseven. "

"I've got my orders!" Fresh horses--forward again, faster thanbefore--over rocks and stumps, on one of which the coach narrowlyescaped turning a summerset. 

"See here!" shrieked Mr. Greeley, "I don't care if we don't get there atall. "

"I've got my orders! I work fer the California Stage Company, I do. That's wot I _work_ fer. They said, 'Get this man through by seving. 'An' this man's goin' through, you bet! Gerlong! Whoo-ep!"

Another frightful jolt, and Mr. Greeley's bald head suddenly found itsway through the roof of the coach, amidst the crash of small timbers andthe ripping of strong canvas. 

"Stop, you--maniac!" he roared. 

Again answered Henry Monk:--

"I've got my orders! _Keep your seat, Horace!_"

At Mud Springs, a village a few miles from Placerville, they met a largedelegation of the citizens of Placerville, who had come out to meet thecelebrated editor, and escort him into town. There was a militarycompany, a brass band, and a six-horse wagon-load of beautiful damselsin milk-white dresses, representing all the States in the Union. It wasnearly dark now, but the delegation was amply provided with torches, andbonfires blazed all along the road to Placerville. 

The citizens met the coach in the outskirts of Mud Springs, and Mr. Monkreined in his foam-covered steeds. 

"Is Mr. Greeley on board?" asked the chairman of the committee. 

"_He was, a few miles back_!" said Mr. Monk. "Yes, " he added, lookingdown through the hole which the fearful jolting had made in thecoach-roof, "Yes, I can see him! He is there!"

"Mr. Greeley, " said the chairman of the committee, presenting himself atthe window of the coach, "Mr. Greeley, sir! We are come to mostcordially welcome you, sir!--Why, God bless me, sir, you are bleeding atthe nose!"

"I've got my orders!" cried Mr. Monk. "My orders is as follows: Git himthere by seving! It wants a quarter to seving. Stand out of the way!"

"But, sir, " exclaimed the committee-man, seizing the off-leader by thereins, "Mr. Monk, we are come to escort him into town! Look at theprocession, sir, and the brass-band, and the people, and the youngwomen, sir!"

"_I've got my orders_!" screamed Mr. Monk. "My orders don't say nothin'about no brass bands and young women. My orders says, 'Git him there byseving. ' Let go them lines! Clear the way there! Whoo-ep! Keep yourseat, Horace!" and the coach dashed wildly through the procession, upsetting a portion of the brass band, and violently grazing the wagonwhich contained the beautiful young women in white. 

Years hence, gray-haired men who were little boys in this processionwill tell their grandchildren how this stage tore through Mud Springs, and how Horace Greeley's bald head ever and anon showed itself like awild apparition above the coach-roof. 

Mr. Monk was on time. There is a tradition that Mr. Greeley was veryindignant for a while: then he laughed and finally presented Mr. Monkwith a brand-new suit of clothes. Mr. Monk himself is still in theemploy of the California Stage Company, and is rather fond of relating astory that has made him famous all over the Pacific coast. But he sayshe yields to no man in his admiration for Horace Greeley. 

SIR THOMAS BROWNE

(1605-1682)

BY FRANCIS BACON

When Sir Thomas Browne, in the last decade of his life, was asked tofurnish data for the writing of his memoirs in Wood's 'AthenæOxonienses, ' he gave in a letter to his friend Mr. Aubrey in the fewestwords his birthplace and the places of his education, his admission as"Socius Honorarius of the College of Physitians in London, " the date ofhis being knighted, and the titles of the four books or tracts which hehad printed; and ended with "Have some miscellaneous tracts which may bepublished. "

This account of himself, curter than many an epitaph, and scantier indetails than the requirements of a census-taker's blank, may serve, withmany other signs that one finds scattered among the pages of thisauthor, to show his rare modesty and effacement of his physical self. Heseems, like some other thoughtful and sensitive natures before andsince, averse or at least indifferent to being put on record as aneating, digesting, sleeping, and clothes-wearing animal, of that speciesof which his contemporary Sir Samuel Pepys stands as the classicalinstance, and which the newspaper interviewer of our own day--that"fellow who would vulgarize the Day of Judgment"--has trained to themost noxious degree of offensiveness. 

[Illustration: SIR THOMAS BROWNE]

Sir Thomas felt, undoubtedly, that having admitted that selectcompany--"fit audience though few"--who are students of the 'ReligioMedici' to a close intimacy with his highest mental processes andconditions, his "separable accidents, " affairs of assimilation andsecretion as one may say, were business between himself and his grocerand tailor, his cook and his laundress. 

The industrious research of Mr. Simon Wilkin, who in 1836 produced thecompletest edition (William Pickering, London) of the literary remainsof Sir Thomas Browne, has gathered from all sources--his own note-books, domestic and friendly correspondence, allusions of contemporary writersand the works of subsequent biographers--all that we are likely, thisside of Paradise, to know of this great scholar and admirable man. 

The main facts of his life are as follows. He was born in the Parish ofSt. Michael's Cheap, in London, on the 19th of October, 1605 (the yearof the Gunpowder Plot). His father, as is apologetically admitted by agranddaughter, Mrs. Littleton, "was a tradesman, a mercer, though agentleman of a good family in Cheshire" (_generosa familia_, says SirThomas's own epitaph). That he was the parent of his son's temperament, a devout man with a leaning toward mysticism in religion, is shown bythe charming story Mrs. Littleton tells of him, exhibiting traits worthyof the best ages of faith, and more to be expected in the father of amediæval saint than in a prosperous Cheapside mercer, whose son was tobe one of the most learned and philosophical physicians of the age ofHarvey and Sydenham:--"His father used to open his breast when he wasasleep and kiss it in prayers over him, as 'tis said of Origen's father, that the Holy Ghost would take possession there. " Clearly, it was withreverent memory of this good man that Sir Thomas, near the close of hisown long life, wrote:--"Among thy multiplied acknowledgments, lift upone hand unto heaven that thou wert born of honest parents; thatmodesty, humility, patience, and veracity lay in the same egg and cameinto the world with thee. "

This loving father, of whom one would fain know more, died in the earlychildhood of his son Thomas. He left a handsome estate of £9, 000, and awidow not wholly inconsolable with her third portion and a not undulydeferred second marriage to a titled gentleman, Sir Thomas Button, --aknight so scantily and at the same time so variously described, as "aworthy person who had great places, " and "a bad member" of "mutinous andunworthy carriage, " that one is content to leave him as a problematicalcharacter. 

The boy Thomas Browne being left to the care of guardians, his estatewas despoiled, though to what extent does not appear; nor can it beconsidered greatly deplorable, since it did not prevent his earlyschooling at that ancient and noble foundation of Winchester, nor in1623 his entrance into Pembroke College, Oxford, and in due course hisgraduation in 1626 as bachelor of arts. With what special assistance ordirection he began his studies in medical science, cannot now beascertained; but after taking his degree of master of arts in 1629, hepracticed physic for about two years in some uncertain place inOxfordshire. He then began a course of travel, unusually extensive forthat day. His stepfather upon occasion of his official duties under thegovernment "shewed him all Ireland in some visitation of the forts andcastles. " It is improbable that Ireland at that time long detained atraveler essentially literary in his tastes. Browne betook himself toFrance and Italy, where he appears to have spent about two years, residing at Montpellier and Padua, then great centres of medicallearning, with students drawn from most parts of Christendom. Returninghomeward through Holland, he received the degree of doctor of medicinefrom the University of Leyden in 1633, and settled in practice atHalifax, England. 

At this time--favored probably by the leisure which largely attends thebeginning of a medical career, but which is rarely so laudably orproductively employed, --he wrote the treatise 'Religio Medici, ' whichmore than any other of his works has established his fame and won theaffectionate admiration of thoughtful readers. This production was notprinted until seven years later, although some unauthorized manuscriptcopies, more or less faulty, were in circulation. When in 1642 "itarrived in a most depraved copy at the press, " Browne felt it necessaryto vindicate himself by publishing a correct edition, although, heprotests, its original "intention was not publick: and being a privateexercise directed to myself, what is delivered therein was rather amemorial unto me than an example or rule unto any other. "

In 1636 he removed to Norwich and permanently established himself therein the practice of physic. There in 1641 he married Dorothy Mileham, alady of good family in Norfolk; thereby not only improving his socialconnections, but securing a wife "of such symmetrical proportion to herworthy husband both in the graces of her body and mind, that they seemedto come together by a kind of natural magnetism. " Such at least was theview of an intimate friend of more than forty years, Rev. JohnWhitefoot, in the 'Minutes' which, at the request of the widow, he drewup after Sir Thomas's death, and which contain the most that is known ofhis personal appearance and manners. Evidently the marriage was a happyone for forty-one years, when the Lady Dorothy was left _mæstissimaconjux_, as her husband's stately epitaph, rich with many an _issimus_, declares. Twelve children were born of it; and though only four of themsurvived their parents, such mortality in carefully tended andwell-circumstanced families was less remarkable than it would be now, when two centuries more of progress in medical science have addedsecurity and length to human life. 

The good mother--had she not endeared herself to the modern reader bythe affectionate gentleness and the quaint glimpses of domestic lifethat her family letters reveal--would be irresistible by the ingeniouslybad spelling in which she reveled, transgressing even the wide limitsthen allowed to feminine heterography. 

It is noteworthy that Dr. Browne's professional prosperity was notimpaired by the suspicion which early attached to him, and soondeepened into conviction, that he was addicted to literary pursuits. Hewas in high repute as a physician. His practice was extensive, and hewas diligent in it, as also in those works of literature and scientificinvestigation which occupied all "snatches of time, " he says, "asmedical vacations and the fruitless importunity of uroscopy wouldpermit. " His large family was liberally reared; his hospitality and hischarities were ample. 

In 1646 he printed his second book, the largest and most operose of allhis productions: the 'Pseudodoxia Epidemica, or Inquiries into Vulgarand Common Errors' the work evidently of the _horæ subsecivæ_ of manyyears. In 1658 he gave to the public two smaller but important and mostcharacteristic works, 'Hydriotaphia' and 'The Garden of Cyrus. ' Besidethese publications he left many manuscripts which appeared posthumously;the most important of them, for its size and general interest, being'Christian Morals. '

When Sir Thomas's long life drew to its close, it was with all theblessings "which should accompany old age. " His domestic life had beenone of felicity. His eldest and only surviving son, Edward Browne, hadbecome a scholar after his father's own heart; and though not inheritinghis genius, was already renowned in London, one of the physicians to theKing, and in a way to become, as afterward he did, President of theCollege of Physicians. All his daughters who had attained womanhood hadbeen well married. He lived in the society of the honorable and learned, and had received from the King the honor of knighthood[1]. 

[Footnote 1: As for this business of the knighting, one hesitates fullyto adopt Dr. Johnson's remark that Charles II. "had skill to discoverexcellence and virtue to reward it, at least with such honorarydistinctions as cost him nothing. " A candid observer of the walk andconversation of this illustrious monarch finds room for doubt that hewas an attentive reader or consistent admirer of the 'Religio Medici, 'or 'Christian Morals'; and though his own personal history might havecontributed much to a complete catalogue of Vulgar Errors, Browne'streatise so named did not include divagations from common decency in itsscope, and so may have failed to impress the royal mind. The fact isthat the King on his visit to Norwich, looking about for somebody toknight, intended, as usual on such occasions, to confer the title on themayor of the city; but this functionary, --some brewer or grocer perhaps, of whom nothing else than this incident is recorded, --declined thehonor, whereupon the gap was stopped with Dr. Browne. ]

Mr. John Evelyn, carrying out a long and cherished plan of seeing onewhom he had known and admired by his writings, visited him at Norwich in1671. He found Sir Thomas among fit surroundings, "his whole house andgarden being a paradise and cabinet of rarities, and that of the bestcollections, especially medails, books, plants, and natural things[2]. "Here we have the right background and accessories for Whitefoot'sportrait of the central figure:--

 "His complexion and hair . .. Answerable to his name, his stature moderate, and habit of body neither fat nor lean but [Greek: eusarkos;] . .. Never seen to be transported with mirth or dejected with sadness; always cheerful, but rarely merry at any sensible rate; seldom heard to break a jest, and when he did, . .. Apt to blush at the levity of it: his gravity was natural without affectation. His modesty . .. Visible in a natural habitual blush, which was increased upon the least occasion, and oft discovered without any observable cause. .. . So free from loquacity or much talkativeness, that he was something difficult to be engaged in any discourse; though when he was so, it was always singular and never trite or vulgar. "

[Footnote 2: These two distinguished authors were of congenial tastes, and both cultivated the same Latinistic literary diction. Their meetingmust have occasioned a copious effusion of those "long-tailed words inosity and ation" which both had so readily at command or made to order. It is regrettable that Evelyn never completed a work entitled 'ElysiumBrittannicum' which he planned, and to which Browne contributed achapter 'Of Coronary Plants. ' It would have taken rank with its author's'Sylva' among English classics. ]

A man of character so lofty and self-contained might be expected toleave a life so long, honorable, and beneficent with becoming dignity. Sir Thomas's last sickness, a brief but very painful one, was "enduredwith exemplary patience founded upon the Christian philosophy, " and"with a meek, rational, and religious courage, " much to the edificationof his friend Whitefoot. One may see even a kind of felicity in hisdeath, falling exactly on the completion of his seventy-seventh year. 

He was buried in the church of St. Peter Mancroft, where his monumentstill claims regard as chief among the _memorabilia_ of that noblesanctuary[3]. 

[Footnote 3: In the course of repairs, "in August, 1840, his coffin wasbroken open by a pickaxe; the bones were found in good preservation, thefine auburn hair had not lost its freshness. " It is painful to relatethat the cranium was removed and placed in the pathological museum ofthe Norwich Hospital, labeled as "the gift of" some person (name notrecalled), whose own cranium is probably an object of interest solely toits present proprietor. "Who knows the fate of his own bones? . .. Weinsult not over their ashes, " says Sir Thomas. The curator of the museumfeels that he has a clever joke on the dead man, when with a grin hepoints to a label bearing these words from the 'Hydriotaphia':--"To beknaved out of our graves, to have our skulls made drinking-bowls, andour bones turned into pipes to delight and sport our enemies, aretragical abominations escaped in burning burials. "]

At the first appearance of Browne's several publications, they attractedthat attention from the learned and thoughtful which they have eversince retained. The 'Religio Medici' was soon translated into severalmodern languages as well as into Latin, and became the subject ofcuriously diverse criticism. The book received the distinction of aplace in the Roman 'Index Expurgatorius, ' while from various points ofview its author was regarded as a Romanist, an atheist, a deist, apantheist, and as bearing the number 666 somewhere about him. 

A worthy Quaker, a fellow-townsman, was so impressed by his tone ofquietistic mysticism that he felt sure the philosophic doctor was guidedby "the inward light, " and wrote, sending a godly book, and proposing toclinch his conversion in a personal interview. Such are the perils thatenviron the man who not only repeats a creed in sincerity, but venturesto do and to utter his own thinking about it. 

From Browne's own day to the present time his critics and commentatorshave been numerous and distinguished; one of the most renowned amongthem being Dr. Johnson, whose life of the author, prefixed to an editionof the 'Christian Morals' in 1756, is a fine specimen of that facile andeffective hack-work of which Johnson was master. In that characteristicway of his, half of patronage, half of reproof, and wholly pedagogical, he summons his subject to the bar of his dialectics, and according tohis lights administers justice. He admits that Browne has "greatexcellencies" and "uncommon sentiments, " and that his scholarship andscience are admirable, but strongly condemns his style: "It is vigorous, but rugged; it is learned, but pedantic; it is deep, but obscure; itstrikes, but does not please; it commands, but does not allure; histropes are harsh and his combinations uncouth. "

Behemoth prescribing rules of locomotion to the swan! By how much wouldEnglish letters have been the poorer if Browne had learned his artof Johnson!

Notwithstanding such objurgations, some have supposed that the style ofJohnson, perhaps without conscious intent, was founded upon that ofBrowne. A tone of oracular authority, an academic Latinism sometimesdisregarding the limitations of the unlearned reader, an elaboratebalancing of antitheses in the same period, --these are qualities whichthe two writers have in common. But the resemblance, such as it is, isskin-deep. Johnson is a polemic by nature, and at his best cogent andtriumphant in argument. His thought is carefully kept level with theapprehension of the ordinary reader, while arrayed in a verbal pompsimulating the expression of something weighty and profound. Browne isintuitive and ever averse to controversy, feeling, as he exquisitelysays, that "many have too rashly charged the troops of error and remainas trophies unto the enemies of truth. A man may be in as justpossession of the truth as of a city, and yet be forced to surrender. "Calmly philosophic, he writes for kindred minds, and his conceptssatisfying his own intellect, he delivers them with as little passion asan Æolian harp answering the wind, and lingers not for applause orexplanation. His being

 "Those thoughts that wander through eternity, "

he means that we too shall "have a glimpse of incomprehensibles, andthoughts of things which thoughts but tenderly touch. "

How grandly he rounds his pregnant paragraphs with phrases which forstately and compulsive rhythm, sonorous harmony, and sweetly solemncadences, are almost matchless in English prose, and lack only themechanism of metre to give them the highest rank as verse. 

"Man is a noble animal, splendid in ashes and pompous in the grave, solemnizing nativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omittingceremonies of bravery in the infancy of his nature;" "When personationsshall cease, and histrionism of happiness be over; when reality shallrule, and all shall be as they shall be forever:"--such passages asthese, and the whole of the 'Fragment on Mummies, ' one can scarcelyrecite without falling into something of that chant which the blankverse of Milton and Tennyson seems to enforce. 

That the 'Religio Medici' was the work of a gentleman before histhirtieth year, not a recluse nor trained in a cloister, but active in acalling which keeps closest touch with the passions and frailties ofhumanity, seems to justify his assertion, "I have shaken hands withdelight [_sc. _ by way of parting] in my warm blood and canicular days. "So uniformly lofty and dignified is its tone, and so austere itsmorality, that the book might be taken for the fruit of those later andsadder years that bring the philosophic mind. Its frank confessions andcalm analysis of motive and action have been compared with Montaigne's:if Montaigne had been graduated after a due education in Purgatory, orif his pedigree had been remotely crossed with a St. Anthony and he hadlived to see the _fluctus decumanus_ gathering in the tide ofPuritanism, the likeness would have been closer. 

"The 'Religio Medici, '" says Coleridge, "is a fine portrait of ahandsome man in his best clothes. " There is truth in the criticism, andif there is no color of a sneer in it, it is entirely true. Who does notfeel, when following Browne into his study or his garden, that here is akind of cloistral retreat from the common places of the outside world, that the handsome man is a true gentleman and a noble friend, and thathis best clothes are his every-day wear?

This aloofness of Browne's, which holds him apart "in the still air ofdelightful studies, " is no affectation; it is an innate quality. Hethinks his thoughts in his own way, and "the style is the man" nevermore truly than with him. One of his family letters mentions theexecution of Charles I. As a "horrid murther, " and another speaks ofCromwell as a usurper; but nowhere in anything intended for the publiceye is there an indication that he lived in the most tumultuous andheroic period of English history. Not a word shows that Shakespeare wasof the generation just preceding his, nor that Milton and George Herbertand Henry Vaughan, numerous as are the parallels in their thought andfeeling and in his, were his contemporaries. Constant and extensive asare his excursions into ancient literature, it is rare for him to makeany reference to writers of his own time. 

Yet with all his delight in antiquity and reverence for the great namesof former ages, he is keen in the quest for new discoveries. Hiscommonplace books abound in ingenious queries and minute observationsregarding physical facts, conceived in the very spirit of our modernschool:--"What is the use of dew-claws in dogs?" He does not instantlyanswer, as a schoolboy in this Darwinian day would, "To carry out ananalogy;" but the mere asking of the question sets him ahead of his age. See too his curious inquiries into the left-footedness of parrots andleft-handedness of certain monkeys and squirrels. The epoch-makingannouncement of his fellow-physician Harvey he quickly appreciates atits true value: "his piece 'De Circul. Sang. , ' which discovery I preferto that of Columbus. " And here again a truly surprising suggestion ofthe great results achieved a century and two centuries later by Jennerand Pasteur--concerning canine madness, "whether it holdeth not betterat second than at first hand, so that if a dog bite a horse, and thathorse a man, the evil proves less considerable. " He is the first toobserve and describe that curious product of the decomposition of fleshknown to modern chemists as adipocere. 

He is full of eager anticipation of the future. "Join sense untoreason, " he cries, "and experiment unto speculation, and so give lifeunto embryon truths and verities yet in their chaos. .. . What librariesof new volumes after-times will behold, and in what a new world ofknowledge the eyes of our posterity may be happy, a few ages mayjoyfully declare. "

But acute and active as our author's perceptions were, they did notprevent his sharing the then prevalent theory which assigned to thedevil, and to witches who were his ministers, an important part in theeconomy of the world. This belief affords so easy a solution of someproblems otherwise puzzling, that this degenerate age may look back withenvy upon those who held it in serene and comfortable possession. 

It is to be regretted, however, that the eminent Lord Chief Justice Halein 1664, presiding at the trial for witchcraft of two women, should havecalled Dr. Browne, apparently as _amicus curiæ_, to give his view ofthe fits which were supposed to be the work of the witches. He wasclearly of the opinion that the Devil had even more to do with that casethan he has with most cases of hysteria; and consequently the witches, it must be said, fared no better in Sir Matthew Hale's court than manyof their kind in various parts of Christendom about the same time. Butit would be unreasonable for us to hold the ghost of Sir Thomas deeplyculpable because, while he showed in most matters an exceptionallyenlightened liberality of opinion and practice, in this one particularhe declined to deny the scientific dictum of previous ages and thepopular belief of his own time. 

The mental attitude of reverent belief in its symbolic value, in whichthis devout philosopher contemplated the material world, is that of manyof those who have since helped most to build the structure of NaturalScience. The rapturous exclamation of Linnæus, "My God, I think thythoughts after thee!" comes like an antiphonal response by "the man offlowers" to these passages in the 'Religio Medici':--"This visible worldis but a picture of the invisible, wherein, as in a portrait, things arenot truly, but in equivocal shapes, and as they counterfeit some realsubstance in that invisible fabric. " "Things are really true as theycorrespond unto God's conception; and have so much verity as they holdof conformity unto that intellect, in whose idea they had their firstdeterminations. "

[Illustration: Signature: Fr's. Bacon]

FROM THE 'RELIGIO MEDICI'

I could never divide myself from any man upon the difference of anopinion, or be angry with his judgment for not agreeing with me in thatfrom which within a few days I should dissent myself. I have no geniusto disputes in religion, and have often thought it wisdom to declinethem, especially upon a disadvantage, or when the cause of truth mightsuffer in the weakness of my patronage. Where we desire to be informed, 'tis good to contest with men above ourselves; but to confirm andestablish our opinions, 'tis best to argue with judgments below our own, that the frequent spoils and victories over their reasons may settle inourselves an esteem and confirmed opinion of our own. Every man is not aproper champion for truth, nor fit to take up the gauntlet in the causeof verity: many from the ignorance of these maxims, and aninconsiderate zeal for truth, have too rashly charged the troops oferror, and remain as trophies unto the enemies of truth. A man may be inas just possession of truth as of a city, and yet be forced tosurrender; 'tis therefore far better to enjoy her with peace, than tohazard her on a battle: if therefore there rise any doubts in my way, Ido forget them, or at least defer them, till my better settled judgmentand more manly reason be able to resolve them; for I perceive everyman's own reason is his best Oedipus, and will, upon a reasonable truce, find a way to loose those bonds wherewith the subtleties of error haveenchained our more flexible and tender judgments. In philosophy, wheretruth seems double-faced, there is no man more paradoxical than myself:but in divinity I love to keep the road; and though not in an implicit, yet an humble faith, follow the great wheel of the Church, by which Imove, not reserving any proper poles or motion from the epicycle of myown brain: by these means I leave no gap for heresy, schisms, or errors. 

As for those wingy mysteries in divinity, and airy subtleties inreligion, which have unhinged the brains of better heads, they neverstretched the _pia mater_ of mine: methinks there be not impossibilitiesenough in religion for an active faith; the deepest mysteries ourscontains have not only been illustrated, but maintained, by syllogismand the rule of reason. I love to lose myself in a mystery, to pursue myreason to an _O altitudo!_ 'Tis my solitary recreation to pose myapprehension with those involved enigmas and riddles of the Trinity, with Incarnation and Resurrection. I can answer all the objections ofSatan and my rebellious reason with that odd resolution I learned ofTertullian, "Certum est quia impossible est. " I desire to exercise myfaith in the difficultest point; for to credit ordinary and visibleobjects is not faith, but persuasion. Some believe the better for seeingChrist's sepulchre; and when they have seen the Red Sea, doubt not ofthe miracle. Now contrarily, I bless myself and am thankful that I livenot in the days of miracles, that I never saw Christ nor his disciples;I would not have been one of those Israelites that passed the Red Sea, nor one of Christ's patients on whom he wrought his wonders: then had myfaith been thrust upon me; nor should I enjoy that greater blessingpronounced to all that believe and saw not. 'Tis an easy and necessarybelief, to credit what our eye and sense hath examined: I believe he wasdead and buried, and rose again; and desire to see him in his glory, rather than to contemplate him in his cenotaph or sepulchre. Nor is thismuch to believe; as we have reason, we owe this faith unto history: theyonly had the advantage of a bold and noble faith who lived before hiscoming, who upon obscure prophecies and mystical types could raise abelief and expect apparent impossibilities. 

In my solitary and retired imagination, "Neque enim cum lectulus aut me Porticus excepit, desum mihi"--

I remember I am not alone, and therefore forget not to contemplate Himand his attributes who is ever with me, especially those two mightyones, His wisdom and eternity: with the one I recreate, with the other Iconfound my understanding; for who can speak of eternity without asolecism, or think thereof without an ecstasy? Time we may comprehend:it is but five days older than ourselves, and hath the same horoscopewith the world; but to retire so far back as to apprehend a beginning, to give such an infinite start forward as to conceive an end in anessence that we affirm hath neither the one nor the other, it puts myreason to St. Paul's sanctuary: my philosophy dares not say the angelscan do it; God hath not made a creature that can comprehend him; it is aprivilege of his own nature: _I am that I am_, was his own definitionunto Moses; and it was a short one, to confound mortality, that durstquestion God or ask him what he was. Indeed he only is; all others haveand shall be; but in eternity there is no distinction of tenses; andtherefore that terrible term _predestination_, which hath troubled somany weak heads to conceive, and the wisest to explain, is in respect toGod no prescious determination of our states to come, but a definitiveblast of his will already fulfilled, and at the instant that he firstdecreed it; for to his eternity, which is indivisible and all together, the last trump, is already sounded, the reprobates in the flame and theblessed in Abraham's bosom. St. Peter speaks modestly when he saith, athousand years to God are but as one day; for to speak like aphilosopher, those continued instances of time which flow into athousand years make not to him one moment: what to us is to come, to hiseternity is present, his whole duration being but one permanent point, without succession, parts, flux, or division. 

The world was made to be inhabited by beasts, but studied andcontemplated by man; 'tis the debt of our reason we owe unto God, andthe homage we pay for not being beasts; without this, the world is stillas though it had not been, or as it was before the sixth day, when asyet there was not a creature that could conceive or say there was aworld. The wisdom of God receives small honor from those vulgar headsthat rudely stare about, and with a gross rusticity admire his works:those highly magnify him whose judicious inquiry into his acts, anddeliberate research into his creatures, return the duty of a devout andlearned admiration. 

"Natura nihil agit frustra, " is the only indisputable axiom inphilosophy; there are no grotesques in nature; not anything framed tofill up empty cantons and unnecessary spaces: in the most imperfectcreatures, and such as were not preserved in the ark, but, having theirseeds and principles in the womb of nature, are everywhere where thepower of the sun is--in these is the wisdom of His hand discovered; outof this rank Solomon chose the object of his admiration; indeed, whatreason may not go to school to the wisdom of bees, ants, and spiders?what wise hand teacheth them to do what reason cannot teach us? Ruderheads stand amazed at those prodigious pieces of nature--whales, elephants, dromedaries, and camels; these, I confess, are the colossiand majestic pieces of her hand: but in these narrow engines there ismore curious mathematics; and the civility of these little citizens moreneatly sets forth the wisdom of their Maker. Who admires notRegio-Montanus his fly beyond his eagle, or wonders not more at theoperation of two souls in those little bodies, than but one in the trunkof a cedar? I could never content my contemplation with those generalpieces of wonder, the flux and reflux of the sea, the increase of theNile, the conversion of the needle to the north; and have studied tomatch and parallel those in the more obvious and neglected pieces ofnature, which without further travel I can do in the cosmography ofmyself: we carry with us the wonders we seek without us; there is allAfrica and her prodigies in us; we are that bold and adventurous pieceof nature which he that studies wisely learns in a compendium, whatothers labor at in a divided piece and endless volume. 

Thus there are two books from whence I collect my divinity: besides thatwritten one of God, another of his servant nature, that universal andpublic manuscript that lies expansed unto the eyes of all; those thatnever saw him in the one have discovered him in the other. This was theScripture and Theology of the heathens: the natural motion of the sunmade them more admire him than its supernatural station did the childrenof Israel; the ordinary effect of nature wrought more admiration in themthan in the other all his miracles: surely the heathens knew better howto join and read these mystical letters than we Christians, who cast amore careless eye on these common hieroglyphics and disdain to suckdivinity from the flowers of nature. Nor do I so forget God as to adorethe name of nature; which I define not, with the schools, to be theprinciple of motion and rest, but that straight and regular line, thatsettled and constant course the wisdom of God hath ordained the actionsof his creatures, according to their several kinds. To make a revolutionevery day is the nature of the sun, because of that necessary coursewhich God hath ordained it, from which it cannot swerve but by a facultyfrom that voice which first did give it motion. Now this course ofnature God seldom alters or perverts, but, like an excellent artist, hath so contrived his work that with the selfsame instrument, without anew creation, he may effect his obscurest designs. Thus he sweeteneththe water with a wood, preserveth the creatures in the ark, which theblast of his mouth might have as easily created; for God is like askillful geometrician, who when more easily, and with one stroke of hiscompass, he might describe or divide a right line, had yet rather to dothis in a circle or longer way, according to the constituted andforelaid principles of his art: yet this rule of his he doth sometimespervert to acquaint the world with his prerogative, lest the arrogancyof our reason should question his power and conclude he could not. Andthus I call the effects of nature the works of God, whose hand andinstrument she only is; and therefore to ascribe his actions unto her isto devolve the honor of the principal agent upon the instrument; whichif with reason we may do, then let our hammers rise up and boast theyhave built our houses, and our pens receive the honor of our writing. Ihold there is a general beauty in the works of God, and therefore nodeformity in any kind of species whatsoever: I cannot tell by whatlogic we call a toad, a bear, or an elephant ugly, they being created inthose outward shapes and figures which best express those actions oftheir inward forms. And having passed that general visitation of God, who saw that all that he had made was good, that is, conformable to hiswill, which abhors deformity, and is the rule of order and beauty: thereis no deformity but in monstrosity, wherein notwithstanding there is akind of beauty, nature so ingeniously contriving the irregular partsthat they become sometimes more remarkable than the principal fabric. Tospeak yet more narrowly, there was never anything ugly or misshapen butthe chaos; wherein, notwithstanding, to speak strictly, there was nodeformity, because no form, nor was it yet impregnate by the voice ofGod; now nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature, theybeing both servants of his providence: art is the perfection of nature:were the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos;nature hath made one world, and art another. In brief, all things areartificial; for nature is the art of God. 

I have heard some with deep sighs lament the lost lines of Cicero;others with as many groans deplore the combustion of the library ofAlexandria; for my own part, I think there be too many in the world, andcould with patience behold the urn and ashes of the Vatican, could I, with a few others, recover the perished leaves of Solomon. I would notomit a copy of Enoch's Pillars had they many nearer authors thanJosephus, or did not relish somewhat of the fable. Some men have writtenmore than others have spoken: Pineda quotes more authors in one workthan are necessary in a whole world. Of those three great inventions inGermany, there are two which are not without their incommodities. It isnot a melancholy _utinam_ of my own, but the desires of better heads, that there were a general synod; not to unite the incompatibledifference of religion, but for the benefit of learning, to reduce it, as it lay at first, in a few and solid authors; and to condemn to thefire those swarms and millions of rhapsodies begotten only to distractand abuse the weaker judgments of scholars, and to maintain the tradeand mystery of typographers. 

Again, I believe that all that use sorceries, incantations, and spellsare not witches, or, as we term them, magicians. I conceive there is atraditional magic not learned immediately from the Devil, but at secondhand from his scholars, who, having once the secret betrayed, are able, and do empirically practice without his advice, they both proceedingupon the principles of nature; where actives aptly conjoined to disposedpassives will under any master produce their effects. Thus, I think atfirst a great part of philosophy was witchcraft, which being afterwardderived to one another, proved but philosophy, and was indeed no morebut the honest effects of nature: what invented by us is philosophy, learned from him is magic. We do surely owe the discovery of manysecrets to the discovery of good and bad angels. I could never pass thatsentence of Paracelsus without an asterisk or annotation: "Ascendensastrum multa revelat quærentibus magnalia naturæ, i. E. , opera Dei. " I dothink that many mysteries ascribed to our own inventions have been thecourteous revelations of spirits, --for those noble essences in heavenbear a friendly regard unto their fellow natures on earth; and thereforebelieve that those many prodigies and ominous prognostics which forerunthe ruins of States, princes, and private persons are the charitablepremonitions of good angels, which more careless inquiries term but theeffects of chance and nature. 

Now, besides these particular and divided spirits there may be (foraught I know) an universal and common spirit to the whole world. It wasthe opinion of Plato, and it is yet of the Hermetical philosophers: ifthere be a common nature that unites and ties the scattered and dividedindividuals into one species, why may there not be one that unites themall? However, I am sure there is a common spirit that plays within us, yet makes no part of us: and that is the Spirit of God, the fire andscintillation of that noble and mighty essence which is the life andradical heat of spirits and those essences that know not the virtue ofthe sun; a fire quite contrary to the fire of hell: this is that gentleheat that brooded on the waters, and in six days hatched the world; thisis that irradiation that dispels the mists of hell, the clouds ofhorror, fear, sorrow, despair; and preserves the region of the mind inserenity: whosoever feels not the warm gale and gentle ventilation ofthis spirit (though I feel his pulse) I dare not say he lives; for trulywithout this, to me there is no heat under the tropic; nor any light, though I dwelt in the body of the sun. 

I believe that the whole frame of a beast doth perish, and is left inthe same state after death as before it was materialled unto life: thatthe souls of men know neither contrary nor corruption; that they subsistbeyond the body, and outlive death by the privilege of their propernatures, and without a miracle; that the souls of the faithful, as theyleave earth, take possession of heaven: that those apparitions andghosts of departed persons are not the wandering souls of men, but theunquiet walks of devils, prompting and suggesting us into mischief, blood, and villainy; instilling and stealing into our hearts that theblessed spirits are not at rest in their graves, but wander solicitousof the affairs of the world: but that those phantasms appear often, anddo frequent cemeteries, charnel-houses, and churches, it is becausethose are the dormitories of the dead, where the Devil, like an insolentchampion, beholds with pride the spoils and trophies of his victoryin Adam. 

This is that dismal conquest we all deplore, that makes us so often cry, "Adam, quid fecisti?" I thank God I have not those strait ligaments, ornarrow obligations to the world, as to dote on life, or be convulsed andtremble at the name of death: not that I am insensible of the dread andhorror thereof; or by raking into the bowels of the deceased, continualsight of anatomies, skeletons, or cadaverous reliques, like vespilloesor grave-makers, I am become stupid or have forgot the apprehension ofmortality; but that marshaling all the horrors, and contemplating theextremities thereof, I find not anything therein able to daunt thecourage of a man, much less a well-resolved Christian; and therefore amnot angry at the error of our first parents, or unwilling to bear a partof this common fate, and like the best of them to die--that is, to ceaseto breathe, to take a farewell of the elements, to be a kind of nothingfor a moment, to be within one instant of a spirit. When I take a fullview and circle of myself without this reasonable moderator and equalpiece of justice, Death, I do conceive myself the miserablest personextant: were there not another life that I hope for, all the vanities ofthis world should not entreat a moment's breath from me; could the Devilwork my belief to imagine I could never die, I would not outlive thatvery thought. I have so abject a conceit of this common way ofexistence, this retaining to the sun and elements, I cannot think thisto be a man, or to live according to the dignity of humanity. Inexpectation of a better, I can with patience embrace this life, yet inmy best meditations do often defy death: I honor any man that contemnsit, nor can I highly love any that is afraid of it: this makes menaturally love a soldier, and honor those tattered and contemptibleregiments that will die at the command of a sergeant. For a pagan theremay be some motives to be in love with life; but for a Christian to beamazed at death, I see not how he can escape this dilemma--that he istoo sensible of this life, or hopeless of the life to come. 

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I am naturally bashful; nor hath conversation, age, or travel been ableto effront or enharden me: yet I have one part of modesty which I haveseldom discovered in another, that is (to speak truly) I am not so muchafraid of death, as ashamed thereof: 'tis the very disgrace and ignominyof our natures that in a moment can so disfigure us that our nearestfriends, wife, and children, stand afraid and start at us. The birds andbeasts of the field, that before in a natural fear obeyed us, forgettingall allegiance, begin to prey upon us. This very conceit hath in atempest disposed and left me willing to be swallowed up in the abyss ofwaters, wherein I had perished unseen, unpitied, without wondering eyes, tears of pity, lectures of mortality, and none had said, "Quantummutatus ab illo!" Not that I am ashamed of the anatomy of my parts, orcan accuse nature for playing the bungler in any part of me, or my ownvicious life for contracting any shameful disease upon me, whereby Imight not call myself as wholesome a morsel for the worms as any. 

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Men commonly set forth the torments of hell by fire and the extremity ofcorporal afflictions, and describe hell in the same method that Mahometdoth heaven. This indeed makes a noise, and drums in popular ears: butif this be the terrible piece thereof, it is not worthy to stand indiameter with heaven, whose happiness consists in that part that is bestable to comprehend it--that immortal essence, that translated divinityand colony of God, the soul. Surely, though we place hell under earth, the Devil's walk and purlieu is about it; men speak too popularly whoplace it in those flaming mountains which to grosser apprehensionsrepresent hell. The heart of man is the place the Devil dwells in: Ifeel sometimes a hell within myself; Lucifer keeps his court in mybreast; Legion is revived in me. There are as many hells as Anaxarchusconceited worlds: there was more than one hell in Magdalen, when therewere seven devils, for every devil is an hell unto himself; he holdsenough of torture in his own _ubi_, and needs not the misery ofcircumference to afflict him; and thus a distracted conscience here is ashadow or introduction unto hell hereafter. Who can but pity themerciful intention of those hands that do destroy themselves? the Devil, were it in his power, would do the like; which being impossible, hismiseries are endless, and he suffers most in that attribute wherein heis impassible, his immortality. 

I thank God, and with joy I mention it, I was never afraid of hell, nornever grew pale at the description of that place; I have so fixed mycontemplations on heaven, that I have almost forgot the idea of hell, and am afraid rather to lose the joys of the one than endure the miseryof the other: to be deprived of them is a perfect hell, and needs, methinks, no addition to complete our afflictions. That terrible termhath never detained me from sin, nor do I owe any good action to thename thereof. I fear God, yet am not afraid of him; his mercies make meashamed of my sins, before his judgments afraid thereof; these are theforced and secondary method of his wisdom, which he useth but as thelast remedy, and upon provocation: a course rather to deter the wickedthan incite the virtuous to his worship. I can hardly think there wasever any scared into heaven; they go the fairest way to heaven thatwould serve God without a hell; other mercenaries, that crouch unto himin fear of hell, though they term themselves the servants, are indeedbut the slaves of the Almighty. 

That which is the cause of my election I hold to be the cause of mysalvation, which was the mercy and _beneplacit_ of God, before I was, orthe foundation of the world. "Before Abraham was, I am, " is the sayingof Christ; yet is it true in some sense, if I say it of myself; for Iwas not only before myself, but Adam--that is, in the idea of God, andthe decree of that synod held from all eternity: and in this sense, Isay, the world was before the creation, and at an end before it had abeginning; and thus was I dead before I was alive; though my grave beEngland, my dying place was Paradise; and Eve miscarried of me beforeshe conceived of Cain. 

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Now for that other virtue of charity, without which faith is a merenotion and of no existence, I have ever endeavored to nourish themerciful disposition and humane inclination I borrowed from my parents, and regulate it to the written and prescribed laws of charity: and if Ihold the true anatomy of myself, I am delineated and naturally framed tosuch a piece of virtue; for I am of a constitution so general that itconsorts and sympathizeth with all things: I have no antipathy, orrather idiosyncrasy, in diet, humor, air, anything. I wonder not at theFrench for their dishes of frogs, snails, and toadstools; nor at theJews for locusts and grasshoppers; but being amongst them, make them mycommon viands, and I find they agree with my stomach as well as theirs. I could digest a salad gathered in a churchyard as well as in a garden. I cannot start at the presence of a serpent, scorpion, lizard, orsalamander: at the sight of a toad or viper I find in me no desire totake up a stone to destroy them. I feel not in myself those commonantipathies that I can discover in others; those national repugnances donot touch me, nor do I behold with prejudice the French, Italian, Spaniard, or Dutch: but where I find their actions in balance with mycountrymen's, I honor, love, and embrace them in the same degree. I wasborn in the eighth climate, but seem for to be framed and constellatedunto all: I am no plant that will not prosper out of a garden; allplaces, all airs, make unto me one country; I am in England, everywhere, and under any meridian; I have been shipwrecked, yet am not enemy withthe sea or winds; I can study, play or sleep in a tempest. In brief, Iam averse from nothing: my conscience would give me the lie if I shouldabsolutely detest or hate any essence but the Devil; or so at leastabhor anything but that we might come to composition. If there be anyamong those common objects of hatred I do contemn and laugh at, it isthat great enemy of reason, virtue, and religion--the multitude: thatnumerous piece of monstrosity which, taken asunder, seem men and thereasonable creatures of God, but confused together, make but one greatbeast and a monstrosity more prodigious than Hydra: it is no breach ofcharity to call these fools; it is the style all holy writers haveafforded them, set down by Solomon in canonical Scripture, and a pointof our faith to believe so. Neither in the name of multitude do I onlyinclude the base and minor sort of people: there is a rabble evenamongst the gentry, a sort of plebeian heads, whose fancy moves with thesame wheel as these; men in the same level with mechanics, though theirfortunes do somewhat gild their infirmities, and their purses compoundfor their follies. 

I must give no alms to satisfy the hunger of my brother, but to fulfilland accomplish the will and command of my God: I draw not my purse forhis sake that demands it, but His that enjoined it; I believe no manupon the rhetoric of his miseries, nor to content mine own commiseratingdisposition; for this is still but moral charity, and an act that owethmore to passion than reason. He that relieves another upon the baresuggestion and bowels of pity doth not this so much for his sake as forhis own; for by compassion we make others' misery our own, and so, byrelieving them, we relieve ourselves also. It is as erroneous a conceitto redress other men's misfortunes upon the common considerations ofmerciful natures, that it may be one day our own case; for this is asinister and politic kind of charity, whereby we seem to bespeak thepities of men in the like occasions. And truly I have observed thatthose professed eleemosynaries, though in a crowd or multitude, do yetdirect and place their petitions on a few and selected persons: there issurely a physiognomy which those experienced and master mendicantsobserve, whereby they instantly discover a merciful aspect, and willsingle out a face wherein they spy the signatures and marks of mercy. For there are mystically in our faces certain characters which carry inthem the motto of our souls, wherein he that cannot read ABC may readour natures. I hold moreover that there is a phytognomy, or physiognomy, not only of men, but of plants and vegetables; and in every one of themsome outward figures which hang as signs or bushes of their inwardforms. The finger of God hath left an inscription upon all his works, not graphical or composed of letters, but of their several forms, constitutions, parts and operations, which, aptly joined together, domake one word that doth express their natures. By these letters Godcalls the stars by their names; and by this alphabet Adam assigned toevery creature a name peculiar to its nature. Now there are, besidesthese characters in our faces, certain mystical figures in our hands, which I dare not call mere dashes, strokes _à la volée_, or at random, because delineated by a pencil that never works in vain; and hereof Itake more particular notice, because I carry that in mine own hand whichI could never read of or discover in another. Aristotle, I confess, inhis acute and singular book of physiognomy, hath made no mention ofchiromancy; yet I believe the Egyptians, who were nearer addicted tothose abstruse and mystical sciences, had a knowledge therein, to whichthose vagabond and counterfeit Egyptians did after pretend, and perhapsretained a few corrupted principles which sometimes might verify theirprognostics. 

It is the common wonder of all men, how, among so many millions offaces, there should be none alike. Now, contrary, I wonder as much howthere should be any: he that shall consider how many thousand severalwords have been carelessly and without study composed out of twenty-fourletters; withal, how many hundred lines there are to be drawn in thefabric of one man, shall easily find that this variety is necessary; andit will be very hard that they shall so concur as to make one portraitlike another. Let a painter carelessly limn out a million of faces, andyou shall find them all different; yea, let him have his copy beforehim, yet after all his art there will remain a sensible distinction; forthe pattern or example of everything is the perfectest in that kind, whereof we still come short, though we transcend or go beyond it, because herein it is wide, and agrees not in all points unto its copy. Nor doth the similitude of creatures disparage the variety of nature, nor any way confound the works of God. For even in things alike there isdiversity; and those that do seem to accord do manifestly disagree. Andthus is man like God; for in the same things that we resemble him we areutterly different from him. There was never anything so like another asin all points to concur; there will ever some reserved difference slipin, to prevent the identity, without which two several things would notbe alike, but the same, which is impossible. 

Naturally amorous of all that is beautiful, I can look a whole day withdelight upon a handsome picture, though it be but of an horse. It is mytemper, and I like it the better, to affect all harmony; and sure thereis music even in the beauty, and the silent note which Cupid strikes, far sweeter than the sound of an instrument: for there is music whereverthere is harmony, order, or, proportion: and thus far we may maintain_the music of the spheres_; for those well-ordered motions and regularpaces, though they give no sound unto the ear, yet to the understandingthey strike a note most full of harmony. Whatsoever is harmonicallycomposed, delights in harmony, which makes me much distrust thesymmetry of those heads which declaim against all church music. Formyself, not only from my obedience, but my particular genius, I doembrace it: for even that vulgar and tavern music, which makes one manmerry, another mad, strikes in me a deep fit of devotion and a profoundcontemplation of the First Composer; there is something in it ofdivinity more than the ear discovers: it is an hieroglyphical andshadowed lesson of the whole world and creatures of God; such a melodyto the ear as the whole world, well understood, would afford theunderstanding. In brief, it is a sensible fit of that harmony whichintellectually sounds in the ears of God. It unties the ligaments of myframe, takes me to pieces, dilates me out of myself, and by degrees, methinks, resolves me into heaven. I will not say, with Plato, the soulis an harmony, but harmonical, and hath its nearest sympathy unto music;thus some, whose temper of body agrees and humors the constitution oftheir souls, are born poets, though indeed all are naturally inclinedunto rhythm. 

There is surely a nearer apprehension of anything that delights us inour dreams than in our waked senses: without this, I were unhappy; formy awaked judgment discontents me, ever whispering unto me that I amfrom my friend; but my friendly dreams in the night requite me, and makeme think I am within his arms. I thank God for my happy dreams, as I dofor my good rest, for there is a satisfaction in them unto reasonabledesires, and such as can be content with a fit of happiness; and surelyit is not a melancholy conceit to think we are all asleep in this world, and that the conceits of this life are as mere dreams to those of thenext; as the phantasms of the night to the conceits of the day. There isan equal delusion in both, and the one doth but seem to be the emblem orpicture of the other; we are somewhat more than ourselves in our sleeps, and the slumber of the body seems to be but the waking of the soul. Itis the ligation of sense, but the liberty of reason; and our wakingconceptions do not match the fancies of our sleeps. At my nativity myascendant was the watery sign of Scorpius; I was born in the planetaryhour of Saturn, and I think I have a piece of that leaden planet in me. I am no way facetious, nor disposed for the mirth and galliardize ofcompany; yet in one dream I can compose a whole comedy, behold theaction, and apprehend the jests, and laugh myself awake at the conceitsthereof. Were my memory as faithful as my reason is then fruitful, Iwould never study but in my dreams, and this time also would I choosefor my devotions; but our grosser memories have then so little hold ofour abstracted understandings that they forget the story, and can onlyrelate to our awaked souls a confused and broken tale of that that hathpassed. Aristotle, who hath written a singular tract of sleep, hath not, methinks, thoroughly defined it; nor yet Galen, though he seem to havecorrected it: for those noctambuloes and night-walkers, though in theirsleep do yet enjoy the action of their senses; we must therefore saythat there is something in us that is not in the jurisdiction ofMorpheus; and that those abstracted and ecstatic souls do walk about intheir own corps, as spirits with the bodies they assume, wherein theyseem to hear, see, and feel, though indeed the organs are destitute ofsense, and their natures of those faculties that should inform them. Thus it is observed that men sometimes, upon the hour of theirdeparture, do speak and reason above themselves. For then the soul, beginning to be freed from the ligaments of the body, begins to reasonlike herself, and to discourse in a strain above mortality. 

FROM 'CHRISTIAN MORALS'

When thou lookest upon the imperfections of others, allow one eye forwhat is laudable in them, and the balance they have from someexcellency, which may render them considerable. While we look with fearor hatred upon the teeth of the viper, we may behold his eye with love. In venomous natures something may be amiable: poisons affordanti-poisons: nothing is totally or altogether uselessly bad. Notablevirtues are sometimes dashed with notorious vices, and in some vicioustempers have been found illustrious acts of virtue, which makes suchobservable worth in some actions of King Demetrius, Antonius, and Ahab, as are not to be found in the same kind in Aristides, Numa, or David. Constancy, generosity, clemency, and liberality have been highlyconspicuous in some persons not marked out in other concerns for exampleor imitation. But since goodness is exemplary in all, if others have notour virtues, let us not be wanting in theirs; nor, scorning them fortheir vices whereof we are free, be condemned by their virtues whereinwe are deficient. There is dross, alloy, and embasement in all humantempers; and he flieth without wings, who thinks to find ophir or puremetal in any. For perfection is not, like light, centred in any onebody; but, like the dispersed seminalities of vegetables at thecreation, scattered through the whole mass of the earth, no placeproducing all, and almost all some. So that 'tis well if a perfect mancan be made out of many men, and to the perfect eye of God, even out ofmankind. Time, which perfects some things, imperfects also others. Couldwe intimately apprehend the ideated man, and as he stood in theintellect of God upon the first exertion by creation, we might morenarrowly comprehend our present degeneration, and how widely we arefallen from the pure exemplar and idea of our nature: for after thiscorruptive elongation, from a primitive and pure creation we are almostlost in degeneration; and Adam hath not only fallen from his Creator, but we ourselves from Adam, our Tycho and primary generator. 

If generous honesty, valor, and plain dealing be the cognizance of thyfamily or characteristic of thy country, hold fast such inclinationssucked in with thy first breath, and which lay in the cradle with thee. Fall not into transforming degenerations, which under the old namecreate a new nation. Be not an alien in thine own nation; bring notOrontes into Tiber; learn the virtues, not the vices, of thy foreignneighbors, and make thy imitation by discretion, not contagion. Feelsomething of thyself in the noble acts of thy ancestors, and find inthine own genius that of thy predecessors. Rest not under the expiredmerits of others; shine by those of thine own. Flame not, like thecentral fire which enlighteneth no eyes, which no man seeth, and mostmen think there is no such thing to be seen. Add one ray unto the commonlustre; add not only to the number, but the note of thy generation; andprove not a cloud, but an asterisk in thy region. 

Since thou hast an alarum in thy breast, which tells thee thou hast aliving spirit in thee above two thousand times in an hour, dull not awaythy days in slothful supinity and the tediousness of doing nothing. Tostrenuous minds there is an inquietude in overquietness and nolaboriousness in labor; and to tread a mile after the slow pace of asnail, or the heavy measures of the lazy of Brazilia, were a most tiringpenance, and worse than a race of some furlongs at the Olympics. Therapid courses of the heavenly bodies are rather imitable by ourthoughts than our corporeal motions; yet the solemn motions of our livesamount unto a greater measure than is commonly apprehended. Some few menhave surrounded the globe of the earth; yet many, in the set locomotionsand movements of their days, have measured the circuit of it, and twentythousand miles have been exceeded by them. Move circumspectly, notmeticulously, and rather carefully solicitous than anxiouslysolicitudinous. Think not there is a lion in the way, nor walk withleaden sandals in the paths of goodness; but in all virtuous motions letprudence determine thy measures. Strive not to run, like Hercules, afurlong in a breath: festination may prove precipitation; deliberatingdelay may be wise cunctation, and slowness no slothfulness. 

Despise not the obliquities of younger ways, nor despair of betterthings whereof there is yet no prospect. Who would imagine thatDiogenes, who in his younger days was a falsifier of money, should, inthe after course of his life, be so great a contemner of metal? Somenegroes, who believe the resurrection, think that they shall rise white. Even in this life regeneration may imitate resurrection; our black andvicious tinctures may wear off, and goodness clothe us with candor. Goodadmonitions knock not always in vain. There will be signal examples ofGod's mercy, and the angels must not want their charitable rejoices forthe conversion of lost sinners. Figures of most angles do nearestapproach unto circles, which have no angles at all. Some may be nearunto goodness who are conceived far from it; and many things happen notlikely to ensue from any promises of antecedencies. Culpable beginningshave found commendable conclusions, and infamous courses piousretractations. Detestable sinners have proved exemplary converts onearth, and may be glorious in the apartment of Mary Magdalen in heaven. Men are not the same through all divisions of their ages: time, experience, self-reflections, and God's mercies, make in somewell-tempered minds a kind of translation before death, and men todiffer from themselves as well as from other persons. Hereof the oldworld afforded many examples to the infamy of latter ages, wherein mentoo often live by the rule of their inclinations; so that, without anyastral prediction, the first day gives the last: men are commonly asthey were; or rather, as bad dispositions run into worser habits, theevening doth not crown, but sourly conclude, the day. 

If the Almighty will not spare us according to his merciful capitulationat Sodom; if his goodness please not to pass over a great deal of badfor a small pittance of good, or to look upon us in the lump, there isslender hope for mercy, or sound presumption of fulfilling half hiswill, either in persons or nations: they who excel in some virtues beingso often defective in others; few men driving at the extent andamplitude of goodness, but computing themselves by their best parts, andothers by their worst, are content to rest in those virtues which otherscommonly want. Which makes this speckled face of honesty in the world;and which was the imperfection of the old philosophers and greatpretenders unto virtue; who, well declining the gaping vices ofintemperance, incontinency, violence, and oppression, were yet blindlypeccant in iniquities of closer faces; were envious, malicious, contemners, scoffers, censurers, and stuffed with vizard vices, no lessdepraving the ethereal particle and diviner portion of man. For envy, malice, hatred, are the qualities of Satan, close and dark like himself;and where such brands smoke, the soul cannot be white. Vice may be hadat all prices; expensive and costly iniquities, which make the noise, cannot be every man's sins; but the soul may be foully inquinated at avery low rate, and a man may be cheaply vicious to the perditionof himself. 

Having been long tossed in the ocean of the world, he will by that timefeel the in-draught of another, unto which this seems but preparatoryand without it of no high value. He will experimentally find theemptiness of all things, and the nothing of what is past; and wiselygrounding upon true Christian expectations, finding so much past, willwholly fix upon what is to come. He will long for perpetuity, and liveas though he made haste to be happy. The last may prove the prime partof his life, and those his best days which he lived nearest heaven. 

Live happy in the Elysium of a virtuously composed mind, and letintellectual contents exceed the delights wherein mere pleasurists placetheir paradise. Bear not too slack reins upon pleasure, nor letcomplexion or contagion betray thee unto the exorbitancy of delight. Make pleasure thy recreation or intermissive relaxation, not thy Diana, life, and profession. Voluptuousness is as insatiable as covetousness. Tranquillity is better than jollity, and to appease pain than to inventpleasure. Our hard entrance into the world, our miserable going out ofit, our sicknesses, disturbances, and sad rencounters in it, doclamorously tell us we came not into the world to run a race of delight, but to perform the sober acts and serious purposes of man; which to omitwere foully to miscarry in the advantage of humanity, to play away anuniterable life, and to have lived in vain. Forget not the capital end, and frustrate not the opportunity of once living. Dream not of any kindof metempsychosis or transanimation, but into thine own body, and thatafter a long time; and then also unto wail or bliss, according to thyfirst and fundamental life. Upon a curricle in this world depends a longcourse of the next, and upon a narrow scene here an endless expansionhereafter. In vain some think to have an end of their beings with theirlives. Things cannot get out of their natures, or be, or not be, indespite of their constitutions. Rational existences in heaven perish notat all, and but partially on earth; that which is thus once, will insome way be always; the first living human soul is still alive, and allAdam hath found no period. 

Since the stars of heaven do differ in glory; since it hath pleased theAlmighty hand to honor the north pole with lights above the south; sincethere are some stars so bright that they can hardly be looked upon, someso dim that they can scarcely be seen, and vast numbers not to be seenat all even by artificial eyes; read thou the earth in heaven and thingsbelow from above. Look contentedly upon the scattered difference ofthings, and expect not equality in lustre, dignity, or perfection, inregions or persons below; where numerous numbers must be content tostand like lacteous or nebulous stars, little taken notice of, or dim intheir generations. All which may be contentedly allowable in the affairsand ends of this world, and in suspension unto what will be in the orderof things hereafter, and the new system of mankind which will be in theworld to come; when the last may be the first, and the first the last;when Lazarus may sit above Cæsar, and the just, obscure on earth, shallshine like the sun in heaven; when personations shall cease, andhistrionism of happiness be over; when reality shall rule, and all shallbe as they shall be forever. 

FROM 'HYDRIOTAPHIA, OR URN-BURIAL'

In the Jewish Hypogæum and subterranean cell at Rome was littleobservable beside the variety of lamps and frequent draughts of the holycandlestick. In authentic draughts of Antony and Jerome, we meet withthigh bones and death's-heads; but the cemeterial cells of ancientChristians and martyrs were filled with draughts of Scripture stories;not declining the flourishes of cypress, palms, and olive, and themystical figures of peacocks, doves, and cocks; but literately affectingthe portraits of Enoch, Lazarus, Jonas, and the vision of Ezekiel, ashopeful draughts and hinting imagery of the resurrection--which is thelife of the grave and sweetens our habitations in the land of molesand pismires. 

The particulars of future beings must needs be dark unto ancienttheories, which Christian philosophy yet determines but in a cloud ofopinions. A dialogue between two infants in the womb concerning thestate of this world, might handsomely illustrate our ignorance of thenext, whereof methinks we yet discourse in Plato's den, and are butembryon philosophers. 

Pythagoras escapes, in the fabulous hell of Dante, among that swarm ofphilosophers, wherein, whilst we meet with Plato and Socrates, Cato isto be found in no lower place than Purgatory. Among all the set, Epicurus is most considerable, whom men make honest without an Elysium, who contemned life without encouragement of immortality, and makingnothing after death, yet made nothing of the king of terrors. 

Were the happiness of the next world as closely apprehended as thefelicities of this, it were a martyrdom to live; and unto such asconsider none hereafter, it must be more than death to die, which makesus amazed at those audacities that durst be nothing and return intotheir chaos again. Certainly, such spirits as could contemn death, whenthey expected no better being after, would have scorned to live had theyknown any. And therefore we applaud not the judgments of Machiavel thatChristianity makes men cowards, or that with the confidence of but halfdying, the despised virtues of patience and humility have abased thespirits of men, which pagan principles exalted; but rather regulated thewildness of audacities, in the attempts, grounds, and eternal sequels ofdeath, wherein men of the boldest spirits are often prodigiouslytemerarious. Nor can we extenuate the valor of ancient martyrs, whocontemned death in the uncomfortable scene of their lives, and in theirdecrepit martyrdoms did probably lose not many months of their days, orparted with life when it was scarce worth the living; for (beside thatlong time past holds no consideration unto a slender time to come) theyhad no small disadvantage from the constitution of old age, whichnaturally makes men fearful, and complexionally superannuated from thebold and courageous thoughts of youth and fervent years. But thecontempt of death from corporal animosity promoteth not our felicity. They may sit in the orchestra and noblest seats of heaven who have heldup shaking hands in the fire, and humanly contended for glory. 

Meanwhile, Epicurus lies deep in Dante's hell, wherein we meet withtombs inclosing souls which denied their immortalities. But whether thevirtuous heathen, who lived better than he spake, or, erring in theprinciples of himself, yet lived above philosophers of more speciousmaxims, lie so deep as he is placed; at least so low as not to riseagainst Christians who, believing or knowing that truth, have lastinglydenied it in their practice and conversation--were a query too sad toinsist on. 

But all or most apprehensions rested in opinions of some future being, which, ignorantly or coldly believed, begat those perverted conceptions, ceremonies, sayings, which Christians pity or laugh at. Happy are theywhich live not in that disadvantage of time, when men could say littlefor futurity but from reason; whereby the noblest minds fell often upondoubtful deaths and melancholy dissolutions. With those hopes Socrateswarmed his doubtful spirits against that cold potion; and Cato, beforehe durst give the fatal stroke, spent part of the night in reading theimmortality of Plato, thereby confirming his wavering hand unto theanimosity of that attempt. 

It is the heaviest stone that melancholy can throw at a man, to tell himhe is at the end of his nature; or that there is no farther state tocome, unto which this seems progressional, and otherwise made in vain. Without this accomplishment, the natural expectation and desire of sucha state were but a fallacy in nature. Unsatisfied considerators wouldquarrel at the justice of their constitutions, and rest content thatAdam had fallen lower; whereby, by knowing no other original, and deeperignorance of themselves, they might have enjoyed the happiness ofinferior creatures, who in tranquillity possess their constitutions, ashaving not the apprehension to deplore their own natures; and beingframed below the circumference of these hopes, or cognition of betterbeing, the wisdom of God hath necessitated their contentment. But thesuperior ingredient and obscured part of ourselves, whereto all presentfelicities afford no resting contentment, will be able at last to tellus we are more than our present selves, and evacuate such hopes in thefruition of their own accomplishments. .. . 

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and dealswith the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity. Whocan but pity the founder of the pyramids? Erostratus lives that burntthe Temple of Diana; he is almost lost that built it. Time hath sparedthe epitaph of Adrian's horse, confounded that of himself. In vain wecompute our felicities by the advantage of our good names, since badhave equal durations; and Thersites is like to live as long asAgamemnon. Who knows whether the best of men be known, or whether therebe not more remarkable persons forgot than any that stand remembered inthe known account of time? Without the favor of the everlastingregister, the first man had been as unknown as the last, andMethuselah's long life had been his only chronicle. 

Oblivion is not to be hired. The greater part must be content to be asthough they had not been; to be found in the register of God, not in therecord of man. Twenty-seven names make up the first story, and therecorded names ever since contain not one living century. The number ofthe dead long exceedeth all that shall live. The night of time farsurpasseth the day; and who knows when was the equinox? Every hour addsunto that current arithmetic, which scarce stands one moment. And sincedeath must be the Lucina of life, and even pagans could doubt whetherthus to live were to die; since our longest sun sets at rightdeclensions, and makes but winter arches, and therefore it cannot belong before we lie down in darkness, and have our light in ashes[4];since the brother of death daily haunts us with dying mementos, andtime, that grows old itself, bids us hope no long duration, diuturnityis a dream and folly of expectation. 

[Footnote 4: According to the custom of the Jews, who placed a lightedwax candle in a pot of ashes by the corpse. ]

Darkness and light divide the course of time, and oblivion shares withmemory a great part even of our living beings. We slightly remember ourfelicities, and the smartest strokes of affliction leave but short smartupon us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows destroy us orthemselves. To weep into stones are fables. Afflictions inducecallosities; miseries are slippery, or fall like snow upon us, whichnotwithstanding is no unhappy stupidity. To be ignorant of evils tocome, and forgetful of evils past, is a merciful provision in nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our few and evil days, and ourdelivered senses not relapsing into cutting remembrances, our sorrowsare not kept raw by the edge of repetitions. A great part of antiquitycontented their hopes of subsistency with a transmigration of theirsouls; a good way to continue their memories, while, having theadvantage of plural successions, they could not but act somethingremarkable in such variety of beings, and enjoying the fame of theirpassed selves, making accumulation of glory unto their last durations. Others, rather than be lost in the uncomfortable night of nothing, werecontent to recede into the common being, and make one particle of thepublic soul of all things, which was no more than to return into theirunknown and divine original again. Egyptian ingenuity was moreunsatisfied, contriving their bodies in sweet consistencies to attendthe return of their souls. But all was vanity, feeding the wind andfolly. The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avaricenow consumeth. Mummy is become merchandise, Mizraim cures wounds, andPharaoh is sold for balsams. .. . 

There is nothing strictly immortal but immortality. Whatever hath nobeginning may be confident of no end, which is the peculiar of thatnecessary essence that cannot destroy itself, and the highest strain ofomnipotency to be so powerfully constituted, as not to suffer even fromthe power of itself. All others have a dependent being, and within thereach of destruction. But the sufficiency of Christian immortalityfrustrates all earthly glory, and the quality of either state afterdeath makes a folly of posthumous memory. God, who can only destroy oursouls, and hath assured our resurrection, either of our bodies or nameshath directly promised no duration. Wherein there is so much of chance, that the boldest expectants have found unhappy frustration; and to holdlong subsistence seems but a scape in oblivion. But man is a nobleanimal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave, solemnizingnativities and deaths with equal lustre, nor omitting ceremonies ofbravery in the infamy of his nature. .. . 

Life is a pure flame, and we live by an invisible sun within us. A smallfire sufficeth for life; great flames seemed too little after death, while men vainly affected pyres, and to burn like Sardanapalus. But thewisdom of funeral laws found the folly of prodigal blazes, and reducedundoing fires into the rule of sober obsequies, wherein few could be somean as not to provide wood, pitch, a mourner, and an urn. .. . 

While some have studied monuments, others have studiously declined them;and some have been so vainly boisterous, that they durst not acknowledgetheir graves; wherein Alaricus seems more subtle, who had a river turnedto hide his bones at the bottom. Even Sylla, who thought himself safe inhis urn, could not prevent revenging tongues, and stones thrown at hismonument. Happy are they whom privacy makes innocent, who deal so withmen in this world that they are not afraid to meet them in the next; whowhen they die make no commotion among the dead, and are not touched withthat poetical taunt of Isaiah. 

Pyramids, arches, obelisks, were but the irregularities of vainglory andwild enormities of ancient magnanimity. But the most magnanimousresolution rests in the Christian religion, which trampleth upon prideand sits on the neck of ambition, humbly pursuing that infallibleperpetuity unto which all others must diminish their diameters, and bepoorly seen in angles of contingency. 

Pious spirits, who passed their days in raptures of futurity, madelittle more of this world than the world that was before it, while theylay obscure in the chaos of preordination and night of their forebeings. And if any have been so happy as truly to understand Christianannihilation, ecstasis, exolution, liquefaction, transformation, thekiss of the spouse, gustation of God, and ingression into the divineshadow, they have already had a handsome anticipation of heaven; theglory of the world is surely over, and the earth in ashes unto them. 

FROM 'A FRAGMENT ON MUMMIES'

Wise Egypt, prodigal of her embalmments, wrapped up her princes andgreat commanders in aromatical folds, and, studiously extracting fromcorruptible bodies their corruption, ambitiously looked forward toimmortality; from which vainglory we have become acquainted with manyremnants of the old world, who could discourse unto us of the greatthings of yore, and tell us strange tales of the sons of Mizraim andancient braveries of Egypt. Wonderful indeed are the preserves of time, which openeth unto us mummies from crypts and pyramids, and mammothbones from caverns and excavations; whereof man hath found the bestpreservation, appearing unto us in some sort fleshly, while beasts mustbe fain of an osseous continuance. 

In what original this practice of the Egyptians had root, divers authorsdispute; while some place the origin hereof in the desire to prevent theseparation of the soul by keeping the body untabified, and alluring thespiritual part to remain by sweet and precious odors. But all this wasbut fond inconsideration. The soul, having broken its . .. , is not stayedby bands and cerecloths, nor to be recalled by Sabaean odors, but fleethto the place of invisibles, the _ubi_ of spirits, and needeth a surerthan Hermes's seal to imprison it to its medicated trunk, which yetsubsists anomalously in its indestructible case, and, like a widowlooking for her husband, anxiously awaits its return. .. . 

That mummy is medicinal, the Arabian Doctor Haly delivereth, and diversconfirms; but of the particular uses thereof, there is much discrepancyof opinion. While Hofmannus prescribes the same to epileptics, Johan deMuralto commends the use thereof to gouty persons; Bacon likewise extolsit as a stiptic, and Junkenius considers it of efficacy to resolvecoagulated blood. Meanwhile, we hardly applaud Francis the First ofFrance, who always carried mummies with him as a panacea against alldisorders; and were the efficacy thereof more clearly made out, scarceconceive the use thereof allowable in physic, exceeding the barbaritiesof Cambyses, and turning old heroes unto unworthy potions. Shall Egyptlend out her ancients unto chirurgeons and apothecaries, and Cheops andPsammitticus be weighed unto us for drugs? Shall we eat of Chamnes andAmosis in electuaries and pills, and be cured by cannibal mixtures?Surely, such diet is dismal vampirism, and exceeds in horror the blackbanquet of Domitian, not to be paralleled except in those Arabianfeasts, wherein Ghoules feed horribly. 

But the common opinion of the virtues of mummy bred great consumptionthereof, and princes and great men contended for this strange panacea, wherein Jews dealt largely, manufacturing mummies from dead carcassesand giving them the names of kings, while specifics were compounded fromcrosses and gibbet leavings. There wanted not a set of Arabians whocounterfeited mummies so accurately that it needed great skill todistinguish the false from the true. Queasy stomachs would hardly fancythe doubtful potion, wherein one might so easily swallow a cloud for hisJuno, and defraud the fowls of the air while in conceit enjoying theconserves of Canopus. .. . 

For those dark caves and mummy repositories are Satan's abodes, whereinhe speculates and rejoices on human vainglory, and keeps those kings andconquerors, whom alive he bewitched, whole for that great day when hewill claim his own, and marshal the kings of Nilus and Thebes in sadprocession unto the pit. 

Death, that fatal necessity which so many would overlook or blinkinglysurvey, the old Egyptians held continually before their eyes. Theirembalmed ancestors they carried about at their banquets, as holding themstill a part of their families, and not thrusting them from their placesat feasts. They wanted not likewise a sad preacher at their tables toadmonish them daily of death, --surely an unnecessary discourse whilethey banqueted in sepulchres. Whether this were not making too much ofdeath, as tending to assuefaction, some reason there is to doubt; butcertain it is that such practices would hardly be embraced by our moderngourmands, who like not to look on faces of _mortua_, or be elbowedby mummies. 

Yet in those huge structures and pyramidal immensities, of the builderswhereof so little is known, they seemed not so much to raise sepulchresor temples to death as to contemn and disdain it, astonishing heavenwith their audacities, and looking forward with delight to theirinterment in those eternal piles. Of their living habitations they madelittle account, conceiving of them but as _hospitia_, or inns, whilethey adorned the sepulchres of the dead, and, planting thereon lastingbases, defied the crumbling touches of time and the misty vaporousnessof oblivion. Yet all were but Babel vanities. Time sadly overcometh allthings, and is now dominant, and sitteth upon a sphinx, and lookethunto Memphis and old Thebes, while his sister Oblivion reclinethsemisomnous on a pyramid, gloriously triumphing, making puzzles ofTitanian erections, and turning old glories into dreams. History sinkethbeneath her cloud. The traveler, as he paceth amazedly through thosedeserts, asketh of her, Who builded them? and she mumbleth something, but what it is he heareth not. 

Egypt itself is now become the land of obliviousness, and doteth. Herancient civility is gone, and her glory hath vanished as a phantasma. Her youthful days are over, and her face hath become wrinkled andtetric. She poreth not upon the heavens; astronomy is dead unto her, andknowledge maketh other cycles. Canopus is afar off, Memnon resoundethnot to the sun, and Nilus heareth strange voices. Her monuments are buthieroglyphically sempiternal. Osiris and Anubis, her averruncousdeities, have departed, while Orus yet remains dimly shadowing theprinciple of vicissitude and the effluxion of things, but receivethlittle oblation. 

FROM 'A LETTER TO A FRIEND'

He was willing to quit the world alone and altogether, leaving noearnest behind him for corruption or after-grave, having small contentin that common satisfaction to survive or live in another, but amplysatisfied that his disease should die with himself, nor revive in aposterity to puzzle physic, and make sad mementos of their parenthereditary. .. . 

In this deliberate and creeping progress unto the grave, he was somewhattoo young and of too noble a mind to fall upon that stupid symptom, observable in divers persons near their journey's end, and which may bereckoned among the mortal symptoms of their last disease; that is, tobecome more narrow-minded, miserable, and tenacious, unready to partwith anything when they are ready to part with all, and afraid to wantwhen they have no time to spend; meanwhile physicians, who know thatmany are mad but in a single depraved imagination, and one prevalentdecipiency, and that beside and out of such single deliriums a man maymeet with sober actions and good sense in Bedlam, cannot but smile tosee the heirs and concerned relations gratulating themselves on thesober departure of their friends; and though they behold such madcovetous passages, content to think they die in good understanding, andin their sober senses. 

Avarice, which is not only infidelity but idolatry, either from covetousprogeny or questuary education, had no root in his breast, who made goodworks the expression of his faith, and was big with desires unto publicand lasting charities; and surely, where good wishes and charitableintentions exceed abilities, theorical beneficency may be more than adream. They build not castles in the air who would build churches onearth; and though they leave no such structures here, may lay goodfoundations in heaven. In brief, his life and death were such that Icould not blame them who wished the like, and almost to have beenhimself: almost, I say; for though we may wish the prosperousappurtenances of others, or to be another in his happy accidents, yet sointrinsical is every man unto himself that some doubt may be madewhether any would exchange his being, or substantially becomeanother man. 

He had wisely seen the world at home and abroad, and thereby observedunder what variety men are deluded in the pursuit of that which is nothere to be found. And although he had no opinion of reputed felicitiesbelow, and apprehended men widely out in the estimate of such happiness, yet his sober contempt of the world wrought no Democratism or Cynicism, no laughing or snarling at it, as well understanding there are notfelicities in this world to satisfy a serious mind; and therefore, tosoften the stream of our lives, we are fain to take in the reputedcontentions of this world, to unite with the crowd in their beatitudes, and to make ourselves happy by consortion, opinion, or co-existimation:for strictly to separate from received and customary felicities, and toconfine unto the rigor of realities, were to contract the consolation ofour beings unto too uncomfortable circumscriptions. 

Not to be content with life is the unsatisfactory state of those whodestroy themselves; who, being afraid to live, run blindly upon theirown death, which no man fears by experience: and the Stoics had anotable doctrine to take away the fear thereof; that is, in suchextremities, to desire that which is not to be avoided, and wish whatmight be feared; and so made evils voluntary and to suit with their owndesires, which took off the terror of them. 

But the ancient martyrs were not encouraged by such fallacies, who, though they feared not death, were afraid to be their own executioners;and therefore thought it more wisdom to crucify their lusts than theirbodies, to circumcise than stab their hearts, and to mortify than killthemselves. 

His willingness to leave this world about that age when most men thinkthey may best enjoy it, though paradoxical unto worldly ears, was notstrange unto mine, who have so often observed that many, though old, oftstick fast unto the world, and seem to be drawn like Cacus's oxen, backward with great struggling and reluctancy unto the grave. The longhabit of living makes mere men more hardly to part with life, and all tobe nothing, but what is to come. To live at the rate of the old world, when some could scarce remember themselves young, may afford no betterdigested death than a more moderate period. Many would have thought itan happiness to have had their lot of life in some notable conjuncturesof ages past; but the uncertainty of future times hath tempted few tomake a part in ages to come. And surely, he that hath taken the truealtitude of things, and rightly calculated the degenerate state of thisage, is not like to envy those that shall live in the next, much lessthree or four hundred years hence, when no man can comfortably imaginewhat face this world will carry; and therefore, since every age makes astep unto the end of all things, and the Scripture affords so hard acharacter of the last times, quiet minds will be content with theirgenerations, and rather bless ages past than be ambitious of thoseto come. 

Though age had set no seal upon his face, yet a dim eye might clearlydiscover fifty in his actions; and therefore, since wisdom is the grayhair, and an unspotted life old age, although his years came short, hemight have been said to have held up with longer livers, and to havebeen Solomon's old man. And surely if we deduct all those days of ourlife which we might wish unlived, and which abate the comfort of thosewe now live, if we reckon up only those days which God hath accepted ofour lives, a life of good years will hardly be a span long; the son inthis sense may outlive the father, and none be climacterically old. Hethat early arriveth unto the parts and prudence of age is happily oldwithout the uncomfortable attendants of it; and 'tis superfluous to liveunto gray hairs, when in a precocious temper we anticipate the virtuesof them. In brief, he cannot be accounted young who outliveth the oldman. He that hath early arrived unto the measure of a perfect stature inChrist, hath already fulfilled the prime and longest intention of hisbeing; and one day lived after the perfect rule of piety is to bepreferred before sinning immortality. 

Although he attained not unto the years of his predecessors, yet hewanted not those preserving virtues which confirm the thread of weakerconstitutions. _Cautelous_ chastity and _crafty_ sobriety were far fromhim; those jewels were _paragon_, without flaw, hair, ice, or cloud inhim: which affords me a hint to proceed in these good wishes and fewmementos unto you. 

SOME RELATIONS WHOSE TRUTH WE FEAR

From 'Pseudoxia Epidemica'

Many other accounts like these we meet sometimes in history, scandalousunto Christianity, and even unto humanity; whose verities not only, butwhose relations, honest minds do deprecate. For of sins heteroclital, and such as want either name or precedent, there is ofttimes a sin evenin their histories. We desire no records of such enormities; sins shouldbe accounted new, that so they may be esteemed monstrous. They amit ofmonstrosity as they fall from their rarity; for men count it venial toerr with their forefathers, and foolishly conceive they divide a sin inits society. The pens of men may sufficiently expatiate without thesesingularities of villainy; for as they increase the hatred of vice insome, so do they enlarge the theory of wickedness in all. And this isone thing that may make latter ages worse than were the former; for thevicious examples of ages past poison the curiosity of these present, affording a hint of sin unto seducible spirits, and soliciting thoseunto the imitation of them, whose heads were never so perverselyprincipled as to invent them. In this kind we commend the wisdom andgoodness of Galen, who would not leave unto the world too subtle atheory of poisons; unarming thereby the malice of venomous spirits, whose ignorance must be contented with sublimate and arsenic. For surelythere are subtler venerations, such as will invisibly destroy, and likethe basilisks of heaven. In things of this nature silence commendethhistory: 'tis the veniable part of things lost; wherein there must neverrise a Pancirollus, nor remain any register but that of hell. 

WILLIAM BROWNE

(1591-1643)

Among the English poets fatuous for their imaginative interpretation ofnature, high rank must be given to William Browne, who belongs in thelist headed by Spenser, and including Thomas Lodge, Michael Drayton, Nicholas Breton, George Wither, and Phineas Fletcher. Although he showsskill and charm of style in various kinds of verse, his name restschiefly upon his largest work, 'Britannia's Pastorals. ' This is muchwider in scope than the title suggests, if one follows the definitiongiven by Pope in his 'Discourse on Pastoral Poetry. ' He says:--"APastoral is an imitation of the action of a shepherd or one consideredunder that character. The form of this imitation is dramatic, ornarrated, or mixed of both; the fable simple, the manners not too politenor too rustic; the thoughts are plain, yet admit a little quickness andpassion. .. . If we would copy Nature, it may be useful to take this Ideaalong with us: that Pastoral is an image of what they call the GoldenAge. So that we are not to describe our shepherds as shepherds at thisday really are, but as they may be conceived then to have been when thebest of men followed the employment. .. . We must therefore use someillusion to render a Pastoral delightful, and this consists in exposingthe best side only of a shepherd's life, and in concealing itsmiseries. "

In his 'Shepherd's Pipe, ' a series of 'Eclogues' Browne follows thisplan; but 'Britannia's Pastorals' contains rambling stories ofHamadryads and Oreads; figures which are too shadowy to seem real, yetstand in exquisite woodland landscapes. When the story passes to theyellow sands and "froth-girt rocks, " washed by the crisped and curlingwaves from "Neptune's silver, ever-shaking breast, " or when it touchesthe mysteries of the ocean world, over which "Thetis drives her silverthrone, " the poet's fancy is as delicate as when he revels in the earthysmell of the woods, where the leaves, golden and green, hide from sightthe feathered choir; where glow the hips of scarlet berries; where isheard the dropping of nuts; and where the active bright-eyed squirrelsleap from tree to tree. 

The loves, hardships, and adventures of Marina, Celadyne, Redmond, Fida, Philocel, Aletheia, Metanoia, and Amintas do not hold the reader fromdelight in descriptions of the blackbird and dove calling from the dewybranches; crystal streams lisping through banks purple with violets, rosy with eglantine, or sweet with wild thyme; thickets where therabbits hide; sequestered nooks on which the elms and alders throw longshadows; circles of green grass made by dancing elves; rounded hillsshut in by oaks, pines, birches, and laurel, where shepherds pipe onoaten straws, or shag-haired satyrs frolic and sleep; and meadows, whosecarpets of cowslip and mint are freshened daily by nymphs pouring outgentle streams from crystal urns. Every now and then, huntsmen in greendash through his sombre woods with their hounds in full cry; anglers areseated by still pools, shepherds dance around the May-pole, andshepherdesses gather flowers for garlands. Gloomy caves appear, surrounded by hawthorn and holly that "outdares cold winter's ire, " andsheltering old hermits, skilled in simples and the secret power ofherbs. Sometimes the poet describes a choir where the tiny wren singsthe treble, Robin Redbreast the mean, the thrush the tenor, and thenightingale the counter-tenor, while droning bees fill in the bass; andshows us fairy haunts and customs with a delicacy only equaled byDrayton and Herrick. 

Several lyric songs of high order are scattered through the 'Pastorals, 'and the famous 'Palinode on Man' is imbedded in the Third Book asfollows:--

 "I truly know How men are born and whither they shall go; I know that like to silkworms of one year, Or like a kind and wronged lover's tear, Or on the pathless waves a rudder's dint, Or like the little sparkles of a flint, Or like to thin round cakes with cost perfum'd, Or fireworks only made to be consum'd: I know that such is man, and all that trust In that weak piece of animated dust. The silkworm droops, the lover's tears soon shed, The ship's way quickly lost, the sparkle dead; The cake burns out in haste, the firework's done, And man as soon as these as quickly gone. "

Little is known of Browne's life. He was a native of Tavistock, Devonshire; born, it is thought, in 1591, the son of Thomas Browne, whois supposed by Prince in his 'Worthies of Devon' to have belonged to aknightly family. According to Wood, who says "he had a great mind in alittle body, " he was sent to Exeter College, Oxford, "about thebeginning of the reign of James I. " Leaving Oxford without a degree, hewas admitted in 1612 to the Inner Temple, London, and a little later heis discovered at Oxford, engaged as private tutor to Robert Dormer, afterward Earl of Carnarvon. In 1624 he received his degree of Master ofArts from Oxford. He appears to have settled in Dorking, and after 1640nothing more is heard of him. Wood thinks he died in 1645, but there isan entry in the Tavistock register, dated March 27th, 1643, and reading"William Browne was buried" on that day. That he was devoted to thestreams, dales, and downs of his native Devonshire is shown in thePastorals, where he sings:--

 "Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessèd plot Whose equal all the world affordeth not! Show me who can, so many crystal rills, Such sweet-cloth'd valleys or aspiring hills; Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines; Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines. "

And in another place he says:--

 "And Tavy in my rhymes Challenge a due; let it thy glory be That famous Drake and I were born by thee. "

The First Book of 'Britannia's Pastorals' was written before its authorwas twenty, and was published in 1631. The Second Book appeared in 1616, and both were reprinted in 1625. The Third Book was not published duringBrowne's life. The 'Shepherd's Pipe' was published in 1614, and 'TheInner Temple Masque, ' written on the story of Ulysses and Circe, forrepresentation in 1614, was first published in Thomas Davies's editionof Browne's works (3 vols. , 1772). Two critical editions of value havebeen brought out in recent years: one by W. Carew Hazlitt (London, 1868-69); and the other by Gordon Goodwin and A. H. Bullen (1894). 

"In the third song of the Second Book, " says Mr. Bullen in hispreface, --

 "There is a description of a delightful grove, perfumed with 'odoriferous buds and herbs of price, ' where fruits hang in gallant clusters from the trees, and birds tune their notes to the music of running water; so fair a pleasaunce

 'that you are fain Where you last walked to turn and walk again. '

 A generous reader might apply that description to Browne's poetry; he might urge that the breezes which blew down these leafy alleys and over those trim parterres were not more grateful than the fragrance exhaled from the 'Pastorals'; that the brooks and birds babble and twitter in the printed page not less blithely than in that western Paradise. What so pleasant as to read of May-games, true-love knots, and shepherds piping in the shade? of pixies and fairy-circles? of rustic bridals and junketings? of angling, hunting the squirrel, nut-gathering? Of such subjects William Browne treats, singing like the shepherd in the 'Arcadia, ' as though he would never grow old. He was a happy poet. It was his good fortune to grow up among wholesome surroundings whose gracious influences sank into his spirit. He loved the hills and dales round Tavistock, and lovingly described them in his verse. Frequently he indulges in descriptions of sunrise and sunset; they leave no vivid impression, but charm the reader by their quiet beauty. It cannot be denied that his fondness for simple, homely images sometimes led him into sheer fatuity; and candid admirers must also admit that, despite his study of simplicity, he could not refrain from hunting (as the manner was) after far-fetched outrageous conceits. "

Browne is a poet's poet. Drayton, Wither, Herbert, and John Davies ofHereford, wrote his praises. Mrs. Browning includes him in her 'Visionof Poets, ' where she says:--

 "Drayton and Browne, --with smiles they drew From outward Nature, still kept new From their own inward nature true. "

Milton studied him carefully, and just as his influence is perceived inthe work of Keats, so is it found in 'Comus' and in 'Lycidas. ' Browneacknowledges Spenser and Sidney as his masters, and his work shows thathe loved Chaucer and Shakespeare. 

 CIRCE'S CHARM

 Song from the 'Inner Temple Masque'

 Son of Erebus and night, Hie away; and aim thy flight Where consort none other fowl Than the bat and sullen owl; Where upon thy limber grass, Poppy and mandragoras, With like simples not a few, Hang forever drops of dew; Where flows Lethe without coil Softly like a stream of oil. Hie thee hither, gentle sleep: With this Greek no longer keep. Thrice I charge thee by my wand, Thrice with moly from my hand Do I touch Ulysses's eyes, And with the jaspis: then arise, Sagest Greek!

_CIRCE_. 

Photogravure from a Painting by E Burne-Jones. 

[Illustration]

 THE HUNTED SQUIRREL

 From 'Britannia's Pastorals'

 Then as a nimble squirrel from the wood Ranging the hedges for his filbert food Sits pertly on a bough, his brown nuts cracking, And from the shell the sweet white kernel taking; Till with their crooks and bags a sort of boys To share with him come with so great a noise That he is forced to leave a nut nigh broke, And for his life leap to a neighbor oak, Thence to a beach, thence to a row of ashes; Whilst through the quagmires and red water plashes The boys run dabbling through thick and thin; One tears his hose, another breaks his shin; This, torn and tattered, hath with much ado Got by the briars; and that hath lost his shoe; This drops his band; that headlong falls for haste; Another cries behind for being last: With sticks and stones and many a sounding holloa The little fool with no small sport they follow, Whilst he from tree to tree, from spray to spray Gets to the woods and hides him in his dray. 

 AS CAREFUL MERCHANTS DO EXPECTING STAND

 From 'Britannia's Pastorals'

 As careful merchants do expecting stand, After long time and merry gales of wind, Upon the place where their brave ships must land, So wait I for the vessel of my mind. 

 Upon a great adventure is it bound, Whose safe return will valued be at more Than all the wealthy prizes which have crowned The golden wishes of an age before. 

 Out of the East jewels of worth she brings; The unvalued diamond of her sparkling eye Wants in the treasures of all Europe's kings; And were it mine, they nor their crowns should buy. 

 The sapphires ringèd on her panting breast Run as rich veins of ore about the mold, And are in sickness with a pale possessed; So true for them I should disvalue gold. 

 The melting rubies on her cherry lip Are of such power to hold, that as one day Cupid flew thirsty by, he stooped to sip: And, fastened there, could never get away. 

 The sweets of Candy are no sweets to me Where hers I taste: nor the perfumes of price, Robbed from the happy shrubs of Araby, As her sweet breath so powerful to entice. 

 O hasten then! and if thou be not gone Unto that wicked traffic through the main, My powerful sigh shall quickly drive thee on, And then begin to draw thee back again. 

 If, in the mean, rude waves have it opprest, It shall suffice, I ventured at the best. 

 SONG OF THE SIRENS

 From 'The Inner Temple Masque'

 Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines, All beaten mariners! Here lie love's undiscovered mines, A prey to passengers: Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which make the Phoenix's urn and nest. Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips, But come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. 

 For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests: For stars, gaze on our eyes. The compass love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more. 

 AN EPISTLE ON PARTING

 From 'Epistles'

 Dear soul, the time is come, and we must part; Yet, ere I go, in these lines read my heart: A heart so just, so loving, and so true, So full of sorrow and so full of you, That all I speak or write or pray or mean, -- And, which is all I can, all that I dream, -- Is not without a sigh, a thought of you, And as your beauties are, so are they true. Seven summers now are fully spent and gone, Since first I loved, loved you, and you alone; And should mine eyes as many hundreds see, Yet none but you should claim a right in me; A right so placed that time shall never hear Of one so vowed, or any loved so dear. When I am gone, if ever prayers moved you, Relate to none that I so well have loved you: For all that know your beauty and desert, Would swear he never loved that knew to part. Why part we then? That spring, which but this day Met some sweet river, in his bed can play, And with a dimpled cheek smile at their bliss, Who never know what separation is. The amorous vine with wanton interlaces Clips still the rough elm in her kind embraces: Doves with their doves sit billing in the groves, And woo the lesser birds to sing their loves: Whilst hapless we in griefful absence sit, Yet dare not ask a hand to lessen it. 

 SONNETS TO CÆLIA

 Fairest, when by the rules of palmistry, You took my hand to try if you could guess, By lines therein, if any wight there be Ordained to make me know some happiness: I wished that those charácters could explain, Whom I will never wrong with hope to win; Or that by them a copy might be ta'en, By you alone what thoughts I have within. But since the hand of nature did not set (As providently loath to have it known) The means to find that hidden alphabet, Mine eyes shall be the interpreters alone: By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, fair, If now you see her that doth love me, there. 

 Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest, And take a long leave of sweet poesy; Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west, Should hear no more my oaten melody. Yet shall the song I sung of them awhile Unperfect lie, and make no further known The happy loves of this our pleasant Isle, Till I have left some record of mine own. You are the subject now, and, writing you, I well may versify, not poetize: Here needs no fiction; for the graces true And virtues clip not with base flatteries. Here should I write what you deserve of praise; Others might wear, but I should win, the bays. 

 Fairest, when I am gone, as now the glass Of Time is marked how long I have to stay, Let me entreat you, ere from hence I pass, Perhaps from you for ever more away, -- Think that no common love hath fired my breast, No base desire, but virtue truly known, Which I may love, and wish to have possessed, Were you the highest as fairest of any one. 'Tis not your lovely eye enforcing flames, Nor beauteous red beneath a snowy skin, That so much binds me yours, or makes your fame's, As the pure light and beauty shrined within: Yet outward parts I must affect of duty, As for the smell we like the rose's beauty. 

HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL

(1820-1872)

This poet, prominent among those who gained their chief inspiration fromthe stirring events of the Civil War, was born in Providence, RhodeIsland, February 6th, 1820, and died in East Hartford, Connecticut, October 31st, 1872. He was graduated at Trinity College, Hartford, studied law, and was admitted to the bar; but instead of the legalprofession adopted that of a teacher, and made his home in Hartford, which was the residence of his uncle, the Bishop of Connecticut. Although Mr. Brownell soon became known as a writer of verse, both graveand humorous, it was not till the coming on of the Civil War that hismuse found truest and noblest expression. With a poet's sensitiveness heforesaw the coming storm, and predicted it in verse that has the ring ofan ancient prophet; and when the crash came he sang of the great deedsof warriors in the old heroic strain. Many of these poems, like 'AnnusMemorabilis' and 'Coming, ' were born of the great passion of patriotismwhich took possession of him, and were regarded only as the visions of aheated imagination. But when the storm burst it was seen that he had thetrue vision. As the dreadful drama unrolled, Brownell rose to greaterissues, and became the war-poet _par excellence_, the vigorouschronicler of great actions. 

He was fond of the sea, and ardently longed for the opportunity towitness, if not to participate in, a sea-fight. His desire was gratifiedin a singular way. He had printed in a Hartford paper a very felicitousversification of Farragut's 'General Orders' in the fight at the mouthof the Mississippi. This attracted Farragut's attention, and he tooksteps to learn the name of the author. When it was given, CommodoreFarragut (he was not then Admiral) offered Mr. Brownell the position ofmaster's-mate on board the Hartford, and attached the poet to him in thecharacter of a private secretary. Thus he was present at the fight ofMobile Bay. After the war he accompanied the Admiral in his cruise inEuropean waters. 

Although Brownell was best known to the country by his descriptivepoems, 'The River Fight' and 'The Bay Fight, ' which appear in his volumeof collected works, 'War Lyrics, ' his title to be considered a true poetdoes not rest upon these only. He was unequal in his performance andoccasionally was betrayed by a grotesque humor into disregard of dignityand finish; but he had both the vision and the lyric grace of thebuilder of lasting verse. 

 ANNUS MEMORABILIS

 (CONGRESS, 1860-61)

 Stand strong and calm as Fate! not a breath of scorn or hate-- Of taunt for the base, or of menace for the strong-- Since our fortunes must be sealed on that old and famous Field Where the Right is set in battle with the Wrong. 'Tis coming, with the loom of Khamsin or Simoom, The tempest that shall try if we are of God or no-- Its roar is in the sky, --and they there be which cry, "Let us cower, and the storm may over-blow. " Now, nay! stand firm and fast! (that was a spiteful blast!) This is not a war of men, but of Angels Good and Ill-- 'Tis hell that storms at heaven--'tis the black and deadly Seven, Sworn 'gainst the Shining Ones to work their damnèd will! How the Ether glooms and burns, as the tide of combat turns, And the smoke and dust above it whirl and float! It eddies and it streams--and, certes, oft it seems As the Sins had the Seraphs fairly by the throat. But we all have read (in that Legend grand and dread), How Michael and his host met the Serpent and his crew-- Naught has reached us of the Fight--but if I have dreamed aright, 'Twas a loud one and a long, as ever thundered through! Right stiffly, past a doubt, the Dragon fought it out, And his Angels, each and all, did for Tophet their devoir-- There was creak of iron wings, and whirl of scorpion stings, Hiss of bifid tongues, and the Pit in full uproar! But, naught thereof enscrolled, in one brief line 'tis told (Calm as dew the Apocalyptic Pen), That on the Infinite Shore their place was found no more. God send the like on this our earth! Amen. 

 Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin and Company, Boston. 

 WORDS FOR THE 'HALLELUJAH CHORUS'

 Old John Brown lies a-moldering in the grave, Old John Brown lies slumbering in his grave-- But John Brown's soul is marching with the brave, His soul is marching on. 

 Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His soul is marching on. 

 He has gone to be a soldier in the Army of the Lord; He is sworn as a private in the ranks of the Lord, -- He shall stand at Armageddon with his brave old sword, When Heaven is marching on. 

 He shall file in front where the lines of battle form, He shall face to front when the squares of battle form-- Time with the column, and charge in the storm, Where men are marching on. 

 Ah, foul Tyrants! do ye hear him where he comes? Ah, black traitors! do ye know him as he comes, In thunder of the cannon and roll of the drums, As we go marching on?

 Men may die, and molder in the dust-- Men may die, and arise again from dust, Shoulder to shoulder, in the ranks of the Just, When Heaven is marching on. 

 Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! His soul is marching on. 

 COMING

 (APRIL, 1861)

 World, are thou 'ware of a storm? Hark to the ominous sound; How the far-off gales their battle form, And the great sea-swells feel ground!

 It comes, the Typhoon of Death-- Nearer and nearer it comes! The horizon thunder of cannon-breath And the roar of angry drums!

 Hurtle, Terror sublime! Swoop o'er the Land to-day-- So the mist of wrong and crime, The breath of our Evil Time Be swept, as by fire, away!

 PSYCHAURA

 The wind of an autumn midnight Is moaning around my door-- The curtains wave at the window, The carpet lifts on the floor. 

 There are sounds like startled footfalls In the distant chambers now, And the touching of airy ringers Is busy on hand and brow. 

 'Tis thus, in the Soul's dark dwelling-- By the moody host unsought-- Through the chambers of memory wander The invisible airs of thought. 

 For it bloweth where it listeth, With a murmur loud or low; Whence it cometh--whither it goeth-- None tell us, and none may know. 

 Now wearying round the portals Of the vacant, desolate mind-- As the doors of a ruined mansion, That creak in the cold night wind. 

 And anon an awful memory Sweeps over it fierce and high-- Like the roar of a mountain forest When the midnight gale goes by. 

 Then its voice subsides in wailing, And, ere the dawning of day, Murmuring fainter and fainter, In the distance dies away. 

 SUSPIRIA NOCTIS

 Reading, and reading--little is the gain Long dwelling with the minds of dead men leaves. List rather to the melancholy rain, Drop--dropping from the eaves. 

 Still the old tale--how hardly worth the telling! Hark to the wind!--again that mournful sound, That all night long, around this lonely dwelling, Moans like a dying hound. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

(1809-1861)

It is interesting to step back sixty years into the lives of MissMitford and her "dear young friend Miss Barrett, " when the _-esses_ of"authoresses" and "poetesses" and "editresses" and "hermitesses" makethe pages sibilant; when 'Books of Beauty, ' and 'Keepsakes, ' and theextraordinary methods of "Finden's Tableaux" make us wonder thatliterature survived; when Mr. Kenyon, taking Miss Mitford "to thegiraffes and the Diorama, " called for "Miss Barrett, a hermitess inGloucester Place, who reads Greek as I do French, who has published sometranslations from Æschylus, and some most striking poems, "--"Our sweetMiss Barrett! to think of virtue and genius is to think of her. " Of herown life Mrs. Browning writes:--"As to stories, my story amounts to theknife-grinder's, with nothing at all for a catastrophe. A bird in a cagewould have as good a story; most of my events and nearly all my intensepleasure have passed in my thoughts. "

[Illustration: Mrs. Browning]

She was born at Burn Hall, Durham, on March 6th, 1809, and passed ahappy childhood and youth in her father's country house at Hope End, Herefordshire. She was remarkably precocious, reading Homer in theoriginal at eight years of age. She said that in those days "the Greekswere her demigods. She dreamed more of Agamemnon than of Moses, herblack pony. " "I wrote verses very early, at eight years old and earlier. But what is less common, the early fancy turned into a will, andremained with me. " At seventeen years of age she published the 'Essay onMind, ' and translated the 'Prometheus' of Æschylus. Some years later thefamily removed to London, and here Elizabeth, on account of hercontinued delicate health, was kept in her room for months at a time. The shock following on the death of her brother, who was drowned beforeher eyes in Torquay, whither she had gone for rest, completely shatteredher physically. Now her life of seclusion in her London home began. Foryears she lay upon a couch in a large, comfortably darkened room, seeingonly the immediate members of her family and a few privileged friends, and spending her days in writing and study, "reading, " Miss Mitfordsays, "almost every book worth reading in almost every language. " HereRobert Browning met her. They were married in 1846, against the will ofher father. Going abroad immediately, they finally settled in Florenceat the Casa Guidi, made famous by her poem bearing the same name. Theirhome became the centre of attraction to visitors in Florence, and manyof the finest minds in the literary and artistic world were among theirfriends. Hawthorne, who visited them, describes Mrs. Browning as "apale, small person, scarcely embodied at all, at any rate onlysubstantial enough to put forth her slender fingers to be grasped, andto speak with a shrill yet sweet tenuity of voice. It is wonderful tosee how small she is, how pale her cheek, how bright and dark her eyes. There is not such another figure in the world, and her black ringletscluster down in her neck and make her face look whiter. " She died inFlorence on the 30th of June, 1861, and the citizens of Florence placeda tablet to her memory on the walls of Casa Guidi. 

The life and personality of Elizabeth Barrett Browning seem to explainher poetry. It is a life "without a catastrophe, " except perhaps to herdevoted father. And it is to this father's devotion that some of Mrs. Browning's poetical sins are due; for by him she was so pampered andshielded from every outside touch, that all the woes common to humanitygrew for her into awful tragedies. Her life was abnormal and unreal, --anunreality that passed more or less into everything she did. Indeed, herresuscitation after meeting Robert Browning would mount into a miracle, unless it were realized that nothing in her former life had been quiteas woful as it seemed. That Mrs. Browning was "a woman of real genius, "even Edward Fitzgerald allowed; and in speaking of Shelley, WalterSavage Landor said, "With the exception of Burns, he [Shelley] and Keatswere inspired with a stronger spirit of poetry than any other poet sinceMilton. I sometimes fancy that Elizabeth Barrett Browning comes next. "This is very high praise from very high authority, but none too high forMrs. Browning, for her best work has the true lyric ring, thatspontaneity of thought and expression which comes when the singerforgets himself in his song and becomes tuneful under the stress of themoment's inspiration. All of Mrs. Browning's work is buoyed up by herluxurious and overflowing imagination. With all its imperfections oftechnique, its lapses of taste and faults of expression, it alwaysremains poetry, throbbing with passion and emotion and rich in color andsound. She wrote because she must. Her own assertions notwithstanding, one cannot think of Mrs. Browning as sitting down in cold blood tocompose a poem according to fixed rules of art. This is the secret ofher shortcomings, as it is also the source of her strength, and in herbest work raises her high above those who, with more technical skill, have less of the true poet's divine fire and overflowing imagination. 

So in the 'Sonnets from the Portuguese, ' written at a time when herwoman's nature was thrilled to its very depths by the love of her "mostgracious singer of high poems, " and put forth as translations fromanother writer and tongue--in these her imperfections drop away, and shesoars to marvelous heights of song. Such a lyric outburst as this, whichreveals with magnificent frankness the innermost secrets of an ardentlyloving woman's heart, is unequaled in literature. Here the woman-poet isstrong and sane; here she is free from obscurity and mannerism, and fromgrotesque rhymes. She has stepped out from her life of visions and ofmorbid woes into a life of wholesome reality and of "sweetreasonableness. " Their literary excellence is due also to the fact thatin the sonnet Mrs. Browning was held to a rigid form, and was obliged tocurb her imagination and restrain her tendency to diffuseness ofexpression. Mr. Saintsbury goes so far as to say that the sonnetbeginning--

 "If thou wilt love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only--"

does not fall far short of Shakespeare. 

'Aurora Leigh' gives rise to the old question, Is it advisable to turn athree-volume novel into verse? Yet Landor wrote about it:--"I amreading a poem full of thought and fascinating with fancy--Mrs. Browning's (Aurora Leigh. ) In many places there is the wild imaginationof Shakespeare. .. . I am half drunk with it. Never did I think I shouldhave a good draught of poetry again. " Ruskin somewhere considered it thegreatest poem of the nineteenth century, "with enough imagination to setup a dozen lesser poets"; and Stedman calls it "a representative andoriginal creation: representative in a versatile, kaleidoscopicpresentment of modern life and issues; original, because the mostidiosyncratic of its author's poems. An audacious speculative freedompervades it, which smacks of the New World rather than the Old. .. . 'Aurora Leigh' is a mirror of contemporary life, while its learned andbeautiful illustrations make it almost a handbook of literature and thearts. .. . Although a most uneven production, full of ups and downs, ofcapricious or prosaic episodes, it nevertheless contains poetry as fineas its author has given us elsewhere, and enough spare inspiration toset up a dozen smaller poets. The flexible verse is noticeably her own, and often handled with as much spirit as freedom. " Mrs. Browningherself declared it the most mature of her works, "and the one intowhich my highest convictions upon life and art have entered. "Consider this:--

 "For 'tis not in mere death that men die most: And after our first girding of the loins In youth's fine linen and fair broidery, To run up-hill and meet the rising sun, We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool, While others gird us with the violent bands Of social figments, feints, and formalisms, Reversing our straight nature, lifting up Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts, Head downwards on the cross-sticks of the world. Yet He can pluck us from that shameful cross. God, set our feet low and our foreheads high, And teach us how a man was made to walk!"

Or this:--

 "I've waked and slept through many nights and days Since then--but still that day will catch my breath Like a nightmare. There are fatal days, indeed, In which the fibrous years have taken root So deeply, that they quiver to their tops Whene'er you stir the dust of such a day. "

Again:--

 "Passion is But something suffered after all-- . . . . . While Art

 Sets action on the top of suffering. "

And this:--

 "Nothing is small! No lily-muffled hum of summer-bee But finds some coupling with the spinning stars; No pebble at your foot but proves a sphere: . . . . . Earth's crammed with Heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes. "

Among Mrs. Browning's smaller poems, 'Crowned and Buried' is, notwithstanding serious defects of technique, one of the most virilethings she has written; indeed, some of her finest lines are to be foundin it. In 'The Cry of the Children' and in 'Cowper's Grave' the pathosis most true and deep. 'Lord Walter's Wife' is an even more courageousvindication of the feminine essence than 'Aurora Leigh'; and her 'Visionof Poets' is said to "vie in beauty with Tennyson's own. " The finethought and haunting beauty of 'A Musical Instrument, ' with itsmatchless climax, need not be dwelt on. 

During her fifteen years' residence in Florence she threw herself withgreat enthusiasm into Italian affairs, and wrote some political poems ofvarying merit, whose interest necessarily faded away when the occasionpassed. But among those poems inspired by the struggle for freedom, 'Casa Guidi Windows' comes close to the 'Sonnets from the Portuguese'and 'Aurora Leigh, ' and holds an enduring place for its high poetry, itsmusical, sonorous verse, and the sustained intellectual vigor ofcomposition. Her volume of 'Last Poems' contains, among much inferiormatter, some of her finest and most touching work, as 'A MusicalInstrument, ' 'The Forced Recruit, ' and 'Mother and Poet, ' Peter Baynesays of her in his 'Great Englishwomen':--"In melodiousness and splendorof poetic gift Mrs. Browning stands . .. First among women. She may nothave the knowledge of life, the insight into character, thecomprehensiveness of some, but we must all agree that a poet's far moreessential qualities are hers: usefulness, fervor, a noble aspiration, and above all a tender, far-reaching nature, loving and beloved, andtouching the hearts of her readers with some virtue from its depths. Sheseemed even in her life something of a spirit; and her view of life'ssorrow and shame, of its hearty and eternal hope, is something like thatwhich one might imagine a spirit's to be. " Whether political, orsociological, or mystical, or sentimental, or impossible, there is aboutall that Mrs. Browning has written an enduring charm of picturesqueness, of romance, and of a pure enthusiasm for art. "Art for Art, " she cries, "And good for God, himself the essential Good! We'll keep our aims sublime, our eyes erect, Although our woman-hands should shake and fail. "

This was her achievement--her hands did not fail!

Her husband's words will furnish, perhaps, the best conclusion to thisslight study:--"You are wrong, " he said, "quite wrong--she has genius; Iam only a painstaking fellow. Can't you imagine a clever sort of angelwho plots and plans, and tries to build up something, --he wants to makeyou see it as he sees it, shows you one point of view, carries you offto another, hammering into your head the thing he wants you tounderstand; and whilst this bother is going on, God Almighty turns youoff a little star--that's the difference between us. The true creativepower is hers, not mine. "

 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT

 WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river. 

 He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep, cool bed of the river. The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. 

 High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river, And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. 

 He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor, dry, empty thing In holes as he sat by the river. 

 "This is the way, " laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sat by the river, ) "The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed. " Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. 

 Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. 

 Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain, -- For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. 

 MY HEART AND I

 Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I. 

 You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend: At last we're tired, my heart and I. 

 How tired we feel, my heart and I! We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang gray and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently; Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?

 So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky. "Dear love, you're looking tired, " he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head: 'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I. 

 So tired, so tired, my heart and I! Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. 

 Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I. 

 Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth, no doubt, Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if, before the days grew rough, We _once_ were loved, used, --well enough I think we've fared, my heart and I. 

 FROM 'CATARINA TO CAMOENS'

 [Dying in his absence abroad, and referring to the poem in which he recorded the sweetness of her eyes. ]

 On the door you will not enter I have gazed too long: adieu! Hope withdraws her "peradventure"; Death is near me, --and not _you!_ Come, O lover, Close and cover These poor eyes you called, I ween, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

 When I heard you sing that burden In my vernal days and bowers, Other praises disregarding, I but hearkened that of yours, Only saying In heart-playing, "Blessed eyes mine eyes have been, If the sweetest HIS have seen!"

 But all changes. At this vesper Cold the sun shines down the door. If you stood there, would you whisper, "Love, I love you, " as before, -- Death pervading Now and shading Eyes you sang of, that yestreen, As the sweetest ever seen?

 Yes, I think, were you beside them, Near the bed I die upon, Though their beauty you denied them, As you stood there looking down, You would truly Call them duly, For the love's sake found therein, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen. "

 And if _you_ looked down upon them, And if _they_ looked up to _you_, All the light which has foregone them Would be gathered back anew; They would truly Be as duly Love-transformed to beauty's sheen, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen. "

 But, ah me! you only see me, In your thoughts of loving man, Smiling soft, perhaps, and dreamy, Through the wavings of my fan; And unweeting Go repeating In your revery serene, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen. "

 O my poet, O my prophet! When you praised their sweetness so, Did you think, in singing of it, That it might be near to go? Had you fancies From their glances, That the grave would quickly screen "Sweetest eyes were ever seen"?

 No reply. The fountain's warble In the courtyard sounds alone. As the water to the marble So my heart falls with a moan From love-sighing To this dying. Death forerunneth Love to win "Sweetest eyes were ever seen. "

 _Will_ you come? When I'm departed Where all sweetnesses are hid, Where thy voice, my tender-hearted, Will not lift up either lid, Cry, O lover, Love is over! Cry, beneath the cypress green, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

 When the Angelus is ringing, Near the convent will you walk, And recall the choral singing Which brought angels down our talk? Spirit-shriven I viewed heaven, Till you smiled--"Is earth unclean, Sweetest eyes were ever seen?"

 When beneath the palace-lattice You ride slow as you have done, And you see a face there that is Not the old familiar one, Will you oftly Murmur softly, "Here ye watched me morn and e'en, Sweetest eyes were ever seen"?

 When the palace-ladies, sitting Round your gittern, shall have said, "Poets, sing those verses written For the lady who is dead, " Will you tremble, Yet dissemble, Or sing hoarse, with tears between, "Sweetest eyes were ever seen"?

 "Sweetest eyes!" How sweet in flowings The repeated cadence is! Though you sang a hundred poems, Still the best one would be this. I can hear it 'Twixt my spirit And the earth-noise intervene, -- "Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

 But--but _now_--yet unremovèd Up to heaven they glisten fast; You may cast away, beloved, In your future all my past: Such old phrases May be praises For some fairer bosom-queen-- "Sweetest eyes were ever seen!"

 Eyes of mine, what are ye doing? Faithless, faithless, praised amiss If a tear be, on your showing, Dropped for any hope of HIS! Death has boldness Besides coldness, If unworthy tears demean "Sweetest eyes were ever seen. "

 I will look out to his future; I will bless it till it shine. Should he ever be a suitor Unto sweeter eyes than mine, Sunshine gild them, Angels shield them, Whatsoever eyes terrene _Be_ the sweetest HIS have seen. 

 THE SLEEP

 "He giveth his beloved sleep. "--Ps. Cxxvii. 2

 OF ALL the thoughts of God that are Borne inward into souls afar Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this-- "He giveth his beloved sleep. "

 What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart to be unmoved. The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown to light the brows?-- He giveth his belovèd sleep. 

 What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. He giveth his beloved sleep. 

 "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth his belovèd sleep. 

 O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men with wailing in your voices! O delvèd gold the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth his beloved sleep. 

 His dews drop mutely on the hill, His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap; More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth his belovèd sleep. 

 Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, --and through the word I think their happy smile is _heard_, -- "He giveth his belovèd sleep. "

 For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose Who giveth his belovèd sleep. 

 And friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one most loving of you all Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall! He giveth his belovèd sleep. "

 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

 I

 Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And _that_ cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows; The young birds are chirping in the nest; The young fawns are playing with the shadows; The young flowers are blowing toward the west: But the young, young children, O my brothers! They are weeping bitterly. They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. 

 II

 Do you question the young children in their sorrow, Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his To-morrow Which is lost in Long-Ago; The old tree is leafless in the forest; The old year is ending in the frost; The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest; The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers! Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland?

 III

 They look up with their pale and sunken faces; And their looks are sad to see, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy. "Your old earth, " they say, "is very dreary; Our young feet, " they say, "are very weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary; Our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children; For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. "

 IV

 "True, " say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time: Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen Like a snowball in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay, From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day. ' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries. Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes; And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens, " say the children, "That we die before our time. "

 V

 Alas, alas, the children! They are seeking Death in life, as best to have. They are binding up their hearts away from breaking With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city; Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty; Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through. But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine. 

 VI

 "For oh!" say the children, "we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them, and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping; We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow; For all day we drag our burden tiring, Through the coal-dark, underground; Or all day we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. 

 VII

 "For all-day the wheels are droning, turning; Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places. Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling, -- All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, 'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning), 'Stop! be silent for to-day!'"

 VIII

 Ay. Be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth; Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth; Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals; Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or tinder you, O wheels! Still all day the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. 

 IX

 Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him, and pray; So the blessèd One who blesseth all the others Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God, that he should hear us While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word; And _we_ hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door. Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, Hears our weeping any more?

 X

 "Two words, indeed, of praying we remember; And at midnight's hour of harm, 'Our Father, ' looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words except 'Our Father'; And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within his right hand, which is strong. 'Our Father!' If he heard us, he would surely (For they call him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, 'Come and rest with me, my child. '

 XI

 "But no!" say the children, weeping faster, "He is speechless as a stone; And they tell us, of his image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!" say the children, --"up in heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us: Grief has made us unbelieving: We look up for God; but tears have made us blind. " Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach? For God's possible is taught by his world's loving-- And the children doubt of each. 

 XII

 And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without its calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom; Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm; Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap; Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly-- Let them weep! let them weep!

 XIII

 They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see. For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity. "How long, " they say, "how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world on a child's heart, -- Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path; But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath!"

 MOTHER AND POET

 [On Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gaeta. ]

 DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at _me_!

 Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said: But _this_ woman, _this_, who is agonized here, -- The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head Forever instead. 

 What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art _is_ she good at, but hurting her breast With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you prest, And I proud by that test. 

 What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees, And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat; To dream and to dote. 

 To teach them. .. . It stings there! _I_ made them indeed Speak plain the word _country. I_ taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. 

 And when their eyes flashed . .. O my beautiful eyes! . .. I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels. God, how the house feels!

 At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and soon, coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. 

 There was triumph at Turin: "Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. 

 I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height _he_ had gained. 

 And letters still came; shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand:--"I was not to faint, -- One loved me for two; would be with me ere long: And _Viva l'Italia_ he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint. "

 My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls, --was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossest, To live on for the rest. "

 On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta, --"_Shot. Tell his mother_. " Ah, ah! "his, " "their" mother, not "mine": No voice says, "_My_ mother, " again to me. What! You think Guido forgot?

 Are souls straight so happy, that, dizzy with heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not! Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that Love and that Sorrow which reconciled so The Above and Below. 

 O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of thy mother! Consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, -- Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say!

 Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. 'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And when Italy's made, for what end is it done, If we have not a son?

 Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men; When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short;

 When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee; When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red: When _you_ have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my dead)--

 What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low And burn your lights faintly! _My_ country is _there_. Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: My Italy's THERE, with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair!

 Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this, and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. 

 Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at _me_!

 A COURT LADY

 Her hair was tawny with gold; her eyes with purple were dark; Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. 

 Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. 

 Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. 

 She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, "Bring That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the King. 

 "Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote; Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat. 

 "Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves, Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves. "

 Gorgeous she entered the sunlight, which gathered her up in a flame, While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came. 

 In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, -- "Many and low are the pallets; but each is the place of a friend. "

 Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed; Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head. 

 "Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou!" she cried, And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face--and died. 

 Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned. 

 Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. "Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings before her. 

 "Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord Able to bind thee, O strong one, free by the stroke of a sword. 

 "Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past. "

 Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's, Young, and pathetic with dying, --a deep black hole in the curls. 

 "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain?"

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands: "Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands. "

 On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kneeling: "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?

 "Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line; But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine. 

 "Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossest, But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest. "

 Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind. 

 Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name; But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. 

 Only a tear for Venice? She turned as in passion and loss, And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross. 

 Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then to another, Stern and strong in his death: "And dost thou suffer, my brother?"

 Holding his hands in hers: "Out of the Piedmont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on. "

 Holding his cold rough hands: "Well, oh well have ye done In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone. "

 Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring. "That was a Piedmontese! and this is the court of the King!"

 THE PROSPECT

 Methinks we do as fretful children do, Leaning their faces on the window-pane To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain, And shut the sky and landscape from their view; And thus, alas! since God the maker drew A mystic separation 'twixt those twain, -- The life beyond us and our souls in pain, -- We miss the prospect which we are called unto By grief we are fools to use. Be still and strong, O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath, And keep thy soul's large window pure from wrong; That so, as life's appointment issueth, Thy vision may be clear to watch along The sunset consummation-lights of death. 

 DE PROFUNDIS

 The face which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With daily love, is dimmed away-- And yet my days go on, go on. 

 The tongue which, like a stream, could run Smooth music from the roughest stone, And every morning with "Good day" Make each day good, is hushed away-- And yet my days go on, go on. 

 The heart which, like a staff, was one For mine to lean and rest upon, The strongest on the longest day, With steadfast love is caught away-- And yet my days go on, go on. 

 The world goes whispering to its own, "This anguish pierces to the bone. " And tender friends go sighing round, "What love can ever cure this wound?" My days go on, my days go on. 

 The past rolls forward on the sun And makes all night. O dreams begun, Not to be ended! Ended bliss! And life, that will not end in this! My days go on, my days go on. 

 Breath freezes on my lips to moan: As one alone, once not alone, I sit and knock at Nature's door, Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, Whose desolated days go on. 

 I knock and cry--Undone, undone! Is there no help, no comfort--none? No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains Where others drive their loaded wains? My vacant days go on, go on. 

 This Nature, though the snows be down, Thinks kindly of the bird of June. The little red hip on the tree Is ripe for such. What is for me, Whose days so winterly go on?

 No bird am I to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature's To give away to better creatures-- And yet my days go on, go on. 

 _I_ ask less kindness to be done-- Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, Till days go out which now go on. 

 Only to lift the turf unmown From off the earth where it has grown, Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold, Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, Forgetting how the days go on. "

 A Voice reproves me thereupon, More sweet than Nature's, when the drone Of bees is sweetest, and more deep, Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on. 

 God's Voice, not Nature's--night and noon He sits upon the great white throne, And listens for the creature's praise. What babble we of days and days? The Dayspring he, whose days go on!

 He reigns above, he reigns alone: Systems burn out and leave his throne: Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall Around him, changeless amid all-- Ancient of days, whose days go on!

 He reigns below, he reigns alone-- And having life in love forgone Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns Or rules with HIM, while days go on?

 By anguish which made pale the sun, I hear him charge his saints that none Among the creatures anywhere Blaspheme against him with despair, However darkly days go on. 

 Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown: No mortal grief deserves that crown. O supreme Love, chief misery, The sharp regalia are for _Thee_, Whose days eternally go on!

 For us, . .. Whatever's undergone, Thou knowest, willest what is done. Grief may be joy misunderstood: Only the Good discerns the good. I trust Thee while my days go on. 

 Whatever's lost, it first was won! We will not struggle nor impugn. Perhaps the cup was broken here That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. I praise Thee while my days go on. 

 I praise Thee while my days go on; I love Thee while my days go on! Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank Thee while my days go on!

 And, having in thy life-depth thrown Being and suffering (which are one), As a child drops some pebble small Down some deep well, and hears it fall Smiling--so I! THY DAYS GO ON!

 THE CRY OF THE HUMAN

 "There is no God, " the foolish saith, But none, "There is no sorrow;" And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes which the preacher could not school By wayside graves are raised; And lips say, "God be pitiful, " Who ne'er said, "God be praised. " Be pitiful, O God. 

 The tempest stretches from the steep The shadow of its coming; The beasts grow tame, and near us creep, As help were in the human: Yet while the cloud-wheels roll and grind, We spirits tremble under! The hills have echoes; but we find No answer for the thunder. Be pitiful, O God!

 The battle hurtles on the plains-- Earth feels new scythes upon her: We reap our brothers for the wains, And call the harvest--honor. Draw face to face, front line to line, One image all inherit: Then kill, curse on, by that same sign, Clay, clay, --and spirit, spirit. Be pitiful, O God!

 We meet together at the feast-- To private mirth betake us-- We stare down in the winecup, lest Some vacant chair should shake us! We name delight, and pledge it round-- "It shall be ours to-morrow!" God's seraphs! do your voices sound As sad in naming sorrow? Be pitiful, O God!

 We sit together, with the skies, The steadfast skies, above us; We look into each other's eyes, "And how long will you love us?" The eyes grow dim with prophecy, The voices, low and breathless-- "Till death us part!"--O words, to be Our _best_ for love the deathless! Be pitiful, dear God!

 We tremble by the harmless bed Of one loved and departed-- Our tears drop on the lips that said Last night, "Be stronger-hearted!" O God, --to clasp those fingers close, And yet to feel so lonely!-- To see a light upon such brows, Which is the daylight only! Be pitiful, O God!

 The happy children come to us, And look up in our faces; They ask us--Was it thus, and thus, When we were in their places? We cannot speak--we see anew The hills we used to live in, And feel our mother's smile press through The kisses she is giving. Be pitiful, O God!

 We pray together at the kirk, For mercy, mercy, solely-- Hands weary with the evil work, We lift them to the Holy! The corpse is calm below our knee-- Its spirit bright before Thee-- Between them, worse than either, we Without the rest of glory! Be pitiful, O God!

 And soon all vision waxeth dull-- Men whisper, "He is dying;" We cry no more, "Be pitiful!"-- We have no strength for crying: No strength, no need! Then, Soul of mine, Look up and triumph rather-- Lo! in the depth of God's Divine, The Son adjures the Father-- BE PITIFUL, O GOD!

 ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

 Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass; And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face. 

 She has thrown her bonnet by; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow-- Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro. 

 Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly uses Fills the silence like a speech; While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses, For her future within reach. 

 Little Ellie in her smile Chooseth--"I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! He shall love me without guile; And to _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds. 

 "And the steed shall be red-roan. And the lover shall be noble, With an eye that takes the breath. And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death. 

 "And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in _azure_, And the mane shall swim the wind: And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind. 

 "But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face. He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in; And I kneel here for thy grace. '

 "Then, ay, then--he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand-- Till I answer, 'Rise and go! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand. '

 "Then he will arise so pale, I shall feel my own lips tremble With a _yes_ I must not say-- Nathless maiden-brave, 'Fare well, ' I will utter, and dissemble-- 'Light to-morrow with to-day. '

 "Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong: To make straight distorted wills, And to empty the broad quiver Which the wicked bear along. 

 "Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet-- 'Lo! my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting! What wilt thou exchange for it?'

 "And the first time I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time, a glove: But the third time--I may bend From my pride, and answer--'Pardon-- If he come to take my love. '

 "Then the young foot-page will run-- Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee: 'I am a duke's eldest son! Thousand serfs do call me master, -- But, O Love, I love but _thee!_

 "He will kiss me on the mouth Then; and lead me as a lover Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And when soul-tied by one troth, Unto _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds. "

 Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe-- And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the _two_. 

 Pushing through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads-- Past the boughs she stoops--and stops! Lo! the wild swan had deserted-- And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 

 Ellie went home sad and slow: If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan's nest among the reeds!

 THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD

 WHAT'S the best thing in the world? June-rose by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when _so_ you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world?-- Something out of it, I think. 

 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

 Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another as they strike athwart Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art A guest for queens to social pageantries, With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part Of chief musician. What hast _thou_ to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me, A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head; on mine the dew: And Death must dig the level where these agree. 

 Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, Most gracious singer of high poems, where The dancers will break footing, from the care Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. And dost thou lift this house's latch, too poor For hand of thine? and canst thou think, and bear To let thy music drop here unaware In folds of golden fulness at my door? Look up, and see the casement broken in, The bats and owlets builders in the roof! My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. Hush, call no echo up in further proof Of desolation! there's a voice within That weeps--as thou must sing--alone, aloof. 

 What can I give thee back, O liberal And princely giver, who hast brought the gold And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold, And laid them on the outside of the wall For such as I to take or leave withal, In unexpected largesse? Am I cold, Ungrateful, that for these most manifold High gifts, I render nothing back at all? Not so; not cold, but very poor instead. Ask God, who knows. For frequent tears have run The colors from my life, and left so dead And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done To give the same as pillow to thy head. Go farther! let it serve to trample on. 

 If thou must love me, let it be for naught Except for love's sake only. Do not say "I love her for her smile, her look, her way Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day:" For these things in themselves, beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee; and love so wrought May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry: A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby. But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on through love's eternity. 

 First time he kissed me, he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write; And ever since it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh list!" When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst I could not wear here plainer to my sight Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed, Half falling on the hair. Oh, beyond meed! That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown With sanctifying sweetness did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect purple state; since when, indeed, I have been proud, and said "My love, my own!"

 I LIVED with visions for my company, Instead of men and women, years ago, And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know A sweeter music than they played to me. But soon their trailing purple was not free Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent grow, And I myself grew faint and blind below Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst come--to be, Beloved, what they seemed. Their shining fronts, Their songs, their splendors (better, yet the same, As river-water hallowed into fonts), Met in thee, and from out thee overcame My soul with satisfaction of all wants, Because God's gifts put man's best dreams to shame. 

 BELOVED, my beloved, when I think That thou wast in the world a year ago, What time I sat alone here in the snow, And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink No moment at thy voice, but, link by link, Went counting all my chains as if that so They never could fall off at any blow Struck by thy possible hand--why, thus I drink Of life's great cup of wonder! Wonderful, Never to feel thee thrill the day or night With personal act or speech, nor ever cull Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white Thou sawest growing! Atheists are as dull, Who cannot guess God's presence out of sight. 

 BECAUSE thou hast the power and own'st the grace To look through and behind this mask of me, (Against which years have beat thus blanchingly With their rains!) and behold my soul's true face, The dim and weary witness of life's race; Because thou hast the faith and love to see, Through that same soul's distracting lethargy, The patient angel waiting for his place In the new heavens; because nor sin nor woe, Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighborhood, Nor all which others viewing, turn to go, Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed, -- Nothing repels thee. --Dearest, teach me so To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!

 I THANK all who have loved me in their hearts, With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all Who paused a little near the prison-wall, To hear my music in its louder parts, Ere they went onward, each one to the mart's Or temple's occupation, beyond call. But thou, who in my voice's sink and fall, When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot, To hearken what I said between my tears, Instruct me how to thank thee!--Oh, to shoot My soul's full meaning into future years, That _they_ should lend it utterance, and salute Love that endures! with Life that disappears!

 How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise; I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith; I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, --I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death. 

 A FALSE STEP

 Sweet, thou hast trod on a heart. Pass! there's a world full of men; And women as fair as thou art Must do such things now and then. 

 Thou only hast stepped unaware, -- Malice, not one can impute; And why should a heart have been there In the way of a fair woman's foot?

 It was not a stone that could trip, Nor was it a thorn that could rend: Put up thy proud underlip! 'Twas merely the heart of a friend. 

 And yet peradventure one day Thou, sitting alone at the glass, Remarking the bloom gone away, Where the smile in its dimplement was, And seeking around thee in vain From hundreds who flattered before, Such a word as, --"Oh, not in the main Do I hold thee less precious, --but more!"

 Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part:-- "Of all I have known or can know, I wish I had only that Heart I trod upon, ages ago!"

 A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD

 They say that God lives very high! But if you look above the pines You cannot see our God. And why?

 And if you dig down in the mines You never see him in the gold, Though, from him, all that's glory shines. 

 God is so good, he wears a fold Of heaven and earth across his face-- Like secrets kept, for love, untold. 

 But still I feel that his embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place:

 As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids her kisses' pressure, Half-waking me at night; and said "Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser?"

 CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY REASON

 I think we are too ready with complaint In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope Of yon gray blank of sky, we might be faint To muse upon eternity's constraint Round our aspirant souls. But since the scope Must widen early, is it well to droop For a few days consumed in loss and taint? O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted, -- And like a cheerful traveler, take the road, Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints?--At least it may be said, "Because the way is _short_, I thank thee, God!"

ROBERT BROWNING

(1812-1889)

BY E. L. BURLINGAME

Robert Browning was born at Camberwell on May 7th, 1812, the son andgrandson of men who held clerkships in the Bank of England--the one formore than forty and the other for full fifty years. His surroundingswere apparently typical of English moderate prosperity, and neitherthey, nor his good but undistinguished family traditions, furnish anybasis for the theorizing of biographers, except indeed in a singlepoint. His grandmother was a West Indian Creole, and though only of thefirst generation to be born away from England, seems, from the restlessand adventurous life led by her brother, to have belonged to a family ofthe opposite type from her husband's. Whether this crossing of theimaginative, Westward-Ho strain of the English blood with thehome-keeping type has to do with the production of such intenselyvitalized temperaments as Robert Browning's, is the only questionsuggested by his ancestry. It is noticeable that his father wished to goto a university, then to become an artist--- both ambitions repressed bythe grandfather; and that he took up his bank official's careerunwillingly. He seems to have been anything but a man of routine; tohave had keen and wide interests outside of his work; to have been agreat reader and book collector, even an exceptional scholar in certaindirections; and to have kept till old age a remarkable vivacity, withunbroken health--altogether a personality thoroughly sympathetic withthat of his son, to whom this may well have been the final touch of aprosperity calculated to shake all traditional ideas of a poet's youth. 

Browning's education was exceptional, for an English boy's. He leftschool at fourteen, and after that was taught by tutors at home, exceptthat at eighteen he took a Greek course at the London University. Histraining seems to have been unusually thorough for these conditions, though largely self-directed; it may be supposed that his father kept asympathetic and intelligent guidance, wisely not too obvious. But in themain it is clear that from a very early age, Browning had deliberatelyand distinctly in view the idea of making literature the pursuit of hislife, and that he troubled himself seriously with nothing that did nothelp to that end; while into everything that did he seems to have thrownhimself with precocious intensity. Individual anecdotes of hisprecocity are told by his biographers; but they are flat beside thegeneral fact of the depth and character of his studies, and superfluousof the man who had written 'Pauline' at twenty-one and 'Paracelsus' attwenty-two. At eighteen he knew himself as a poet, and encountered noopposition in his chosen career from his father, whose "kindness we mustseek, " as Mrs. Sutherland Orr says, "not only in this first, almostinevitable assent to his son's becoming a writer, but in the subsequentunfailing readiness to support him in his literary career. 'Paracelsus, ''Sordello, ' and the whole of 'Bells and Pomegranates' were published athis father's expense, and, incredible as it appears, brought him noreturn. " An aunt, Mrs. Silverthorne, paid the costs of the earlier'Pauline. '

From this time of his earliest published work ('Pauline' was issuedwithout his name in 1833) that part of the story of his life known tothe public, in spite of two or three more or less elaborate biographies, is mainly the history of his writings and the record of his differentresidences, supplemented by less than the usual number of personalanecdotes, to which neither circumstance nor temperament contributedmaterial. He had nothing of the attitude of the recluse, like Tennyson;but while healthily social and a man of the world about him, he was notone of whom people tell "reminiscences" of consequence, and he was in nosense a public personality. Little of his correspondence has appeared inprint; and it seems probable that he will be fortunate, to an evengreater degree than Thackeray, in living in his works and escaping the"ripping up" of the personal chronicler. 

He traveled occasionally in the next few years, and in 1838 and again in1844 visited Italy. In that year, or early in 1845, he became engaged toMiss Elizabeth Barrett, their acquaintance beginning through afriend, --her cousin, --and through letters from Browning expressingadmiration for her poems. Miss Barrett had then been for some years aninvalid from an accident, and an enforced recluse; but in September 1846they were married without the knowledge of her father, and almostimmediately afterward (she leaving her sick room to join him) went toParis and then to Italy, where they lived first in Genoa and afterwardin Florence, which with occasional absences was their home for fourteenyears. Mrs. Browning died there, at Casa Guidi, in June 1861. Browningleft Florence some time afterward, and in spite of his later visits toItaly, never returned there. He lived again in London in the winter, butmost of his summers were spent in France, and especially in Brittany. About 1878 he formed the habit of going to Venice for the autumn, whichcontinued with rare exceptions to the end of his life. There in 1888his son, recently married, had made his home; and there on the 12thof December, 1889, Robert Browning died. He was buried in WestminsterAbbey on the last day of the year. 

[Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING. ]

'Pauline, a Fragment of a Confession, ' Browning's first published poem, was a psychological self-analysis, perfectly characteristic of the timeof life at which he wrote it, --very young, full of excesses of mood, ofreal exultation, and somewhat less real depression--the "confession" ofa poet of twenty-one, intensely interested in the ever-new discovery ofhis own nature, its possibilities, and its relations. It rings verytrue, and has no decadent touch in it:--

 "I am made up of an intensest life . .. A principle of restlessness Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all--"

this is the note that stays in the reader's mind. But the poem ispsychologically rather than poetically noteworthy--except as allbeginnings are so; and Browning's statement in a note in his collectedpoems that he "acknowledged and retained it with extreme repugnance, "shows how fully he recognized this. 

In 'Paracelsus, ' his next long poem, published some two years later, thestrength of his later work is first definitely felt. Taking for themethe life of the sixteenth-century physician, astrologer, alchemist, conjuror, --compound of Faust and Cagliostro, mixture of truth-seeker, charlatan, and dreamer, --Browning makes of it the history of the soul ofa feverish aspirant after the finality of intellectual power, theknowledge which should be for man the key to the universe; the tragedyof its failure, and the greater tragedy of its discovery of thebarrenness of the effort, and the omission from its scheme of life of anelement without which power was impotent. 

 "Yet, constituted thus and thus endowed, I failed; I gazed on power till I grew blind. Power--I could not take my eyes from that; That only I thought should be preserved, increased. 

 * * * * *

 I learned my own deep error: love's undoing Taught me the worth of love in man's estate, And what proportion love should hold with power In his right constitution; love preceding Power, and with much power always much more love. "

'Paracelsus' is the work of a man still far from maturity; but it isBrowning's first use of a type of poem in which his powers were to findone of their chief manifestations--a psychological history, told with soslight an aid from "an external machinery of incidents" (to use his ownphrase), or from conventional dramatic arrangement, as to constitute aform virtually new. 

This was to be notably the method of 'Sordello, ' which appeared in 1840. In a note written twenty-three years later to his friend Milsand, andprefixed as a dedication to 'Sordello' in his collected works, hedefined the form and its reason most exactly:--"The historicaldecoration was purposely of no more importance than a backgroundrequires, and my stress lay on the incidents in the development of asoul; little else is worth study. " This poem, with its "historicaldecoration" or "background" from the Guelf and Ghibelline struggles inItaly, carries out this design in a fashion that defies description orcharacterization. With its inexhaustible wealth of psychologicalsuggestion, its interwoven discussion of the most complex problems oflife and thought, its metaphysical speculation, it may well give pauseto the reader who makes his first approach to Browning through it, andsend him back, --if he begins, as is likely, with the feeling of onechallenged to an intellectual task, --baffled by the intricacy of itsways and without a comprehension of what it contains or leads to. Mr. Augustine Birrell says of it:--

 "We have all heard of the young architect who forgot to put a staircase in his house, which contained fine rooms but no way of getting into them. 'Sordello' is a poem without a staircase. The author, still in his twenties, essayed a high thing. For his subject

 'He singled out Sordello compassed murkily about With ravage of six long sad hundred years. '

 "He partially failed; and the British public, with its accustomed generosity, and in order, I suppose, to encourage the others, has never ceased girding at him because, forty-two years ago, he published at his own charges a little book of two hundred and fifty pages, which even such of them as were then able to read could not understand. "

With 'Sordello, ' however, ended for many years--until he may perhaps besaid to have taken it up in a greatly disciplined and more powerful formin 'The Ring and the Book' and others--this type and this length of thepsychological poem for Browning; and now began that part of his workwhich is his best gift to English literature. 

Four years before the publication of 'Sordello' he had written one play, 'Strafford, ' of which the name sufficiently indicates the subject, whichhad been put upon the stage with some success by Macready;--theforerunner of a noble series of poems in dramatic form, mostconveniently mentioned here together, though not always in chronologicalorder. They were 'The Blot on the 'Scutcheon, ' perhaps the finest ofthose actually fitted for the stage; 'Colombe's Birthday'; 'King Victorand King Charles'; 'The Return of the Druses'; 'Luria'; 'A Soul'sTragedy'; 'In a Balcony'; and, --though less on the conventional lines ofa play than the others, --perhaps the finest dramatic poem of them all, 'Pippa Passes, ' which, among the earlier (it was published in 1841), isalso among the finest of all Browning's works, and touches the veryhighest level of his powers. 

Interspersed with these during the fifteen years between 1840 and 1855, and following them during the next five, appeared the greater number ofthe single shorter poems which make his most generally recognized, hishighest, and his unquestionably permanent title to rank among the firstof English poets. Manifestly, it is impossible and needless to recallany number of these here by even the briefest description; and merely toenumerate the chief among them would be to repeat a familiar catalogue, except as they illustrate the points of a later general consideration. 

Finally, to complete the list of Browning's works, reference isnecessary to the group of books of his later years: the two self-callednarrative poems, 'The Ring and the Book, ' with its vast length, and 'RedCotton Nightcap Country, ' its fellow in method if not in extent. Mr. Birrell (it is worth while to quote him again, as one who has not mergedthe appreciator in the adulator) calls 'The Ring and the Book' "a hugenovel in 20, 000 lines--told after the method not of Scott, but ofBalzac; it tears the hearts out of a dozen characters; it tells the samestory from ten different points of view. It is loaded with detail ofevery kind and description: you are let off nothing. " But he addslater:--"If you are prepared for this, you will have your reward; forthe style, though rugged and involved, is throughout, with the exceptionof the speeches of counsel, eloquent and at times superb: and as for thematter--if your interest in human nature is keen, curious, almostprofessional; if nothing man, woman, or child has been, done, orsuffered, or conceivably can be, do, or suffer, is without interest foryou; if you are fond of analysis, and do not shrink from dissection--youwill prize 'The Ring and the Book' as the surgeon prizes the last greatcontribution to comparative anatomy or pathology. "

This is the key of the matter: the reader who has learned, through hisgreater work, to follow with interest the very analytic exercises, andas it were _tours de force_ of Browning's mind, will prize 'TheRing and the Book' and 'Red Cotton Nightcap Country'; even he willprize but little the two 'Adventures of Balaustion, ' 'PrinceHohenstiel-Schwangau, ' 'The Inn Album, ' and one or two others of thelatest works in the same _genre_. But he can well do without them, andstill have the inexhaustible left. 

The attitude of a large part of his own generation toward Browning'spoetry will probably be hardly understood by the future, and is not easyto comprehend even now for those who have the whole body of his workbefore them. It is intelligible enough that the "crude preliminarysketch" 'Pauline' should have given only the bare hint of a poet to thefew dozen people who saw that it was out of the common; that'Paracelsus' should have carried the information, --though then, beyond adoubt, to only a small circle; and especially that 'Sordello, ' a clearcall to a few, should have sounded to even an intelligent many like anexercise in intricacy, and to the world at large like something to whichit is useless to listen. Or, to look at the other end of his career, itis not extraordinary that the work of his last period--'The Ring and theBook, ' 'Red Cotton Nightcap Country, '--those wonderful minute studies ofhuman motive, made with the highly specialized skill of the psychicalsurgeon and with the confidence of another Balzac in the reader'sfollowing power--should always remain more or less esoteric literature. But when it is remembered that between these lie the most vivid andintensely dramatic series of short poems in English, --those grouped inthe unfortunately diverse editions of his works under the rubrics 'Menand Women, ' 'Dramatic Lyrics, ' 'Dramatic Romances, ' 'Dramatis Personæ, 'and the rest, as well as larger masterpieces of the broad appeal of'Pippa Passes, ' 'A Blot on the 'Scutcheon, ' or 'In a Balcony, '--it ishard to understand, and will be still harder fifty years hence, whyBrowning has not become the familiar and inspiring poet of a vastlylarger body of readers. Undoubtedly a large number of intelligentpersons still suspect a note of affectation in the man who declares hisfull and intense enjoyment--not only his admiration--of Browning; asuspicion showing not only the persistence of the Sordello-borntradition of "obscurity, " but the harm worked by those commentators whoapproach him as a problem. Not all commentators share this reproach; butas Browning makes Bishop Blougram say:--

 "Even your prime men who appraise their kind Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, See more in a truth than the truth's simple self-- Confuse themselves--"

and beyond question such persons are largely responsible for the factthat for some time to come, every one who speaks of Browning to ageneral audience will feel that he has some cant to clear away. If hecan make them read this body of intensely human, essentially simple anddirect dramatic and lyrical work, he will help to bring about the timewhen the once popular attitude will seem as unjustifiable as to judgeGoethe only by the second part of 'Faust. '

The first great characteristic of Browning's poetry is undoubtedly theessential, elemental quality of its humanity--a trait in which it issurpassed by no other English poetry but that of Shakespeare. It can besubtile to a degree almost fantastic (as can Shakespeare's to an extentthat familiarity makes us forget); but this is in method. The stuff ofit--the texture of the fabric which the swift and intricate shuttle isweaving--is always something in which the human being is vitally, notmerely aesthetically interested. It deals with no shadows, and indeedwith few abstractions, except those that form a part of vitalproblems--a statement which may provoke the scoffer, but will be foundto be true. 

A second characteristic, which, if not a necessary result of this first, would at least be impossible without it, is the extent to whichBrowning's poetry produces its effect by suggestion rather than byelaboration; by stimulating thought, emotion, and the aesthetic sense, instead of seeking to satisfy any one of these--especially instead ofcontenting itself with only soothing the last. The comparison of hispoetry with--for instance--Tennyson's, in this respect, is instructive;if it is possibly unjust to both. 

And a third trait in Browning--to make an end of a dangerouslycategorical attempt to characterize him--follows logically from thissecond; its extreme compactness and concentration. Browning sometimesdwells long--even dallies--over an idea, as does Shakespeare; turns it, shows its every facet; and even then it is noticeable, as with thegreater master, that every individual phrase with which he does so ispractically exhaustive of the suggestiveness of that particular aspect. But commonly he crowds idea upon idea even in his lyrics, and--strangelyenough--without losing the lyric quality; each thought pressed down toits very essence, and each with that germinal power that makes thereading of him one of the most stimulating things to be had fromliterature. His figures especially are apt and telling in the veryminimum of words; they say it all, like the unsurpassable Shakespeareanexample of "the dyer's hand"; and the more you think of them, the moreyou see that not a word could be added or taken away. 

It may be said that this quality of compactness is common to all genius, and of the very essence of all true poetry; but Browning manifested itin a way of his own, such as to suggest that he believed in thesubordination of all other qualities to it; even of melody, forinstance, as may be said by his critics and admitted in many cases byeven his strongest admirers. But all things are not given to one, evenamong the giants; and Browning's force with its measure of melody (whichis often great) has its place among others' melody with its measure offorce. Open at random: here are two lines in 'A Toccata of Galuppi's, 'not deficient in melody by any means:--

 "Dear dead women--with such hair, too: what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms?--I feel chilly and grown old. "

This is not Villon's 'Ballad of Dead Ladies, ' nor even Tennyson's 'Dreamof Fair Women'; but a master can still say a good deal in two lines. 

What is called the "roughness" of Browning's verse is at all eventsnever the roughness that comes from mismanagement or disregard of theform chosen. He has an unerring ear for time and quantity; and hissubordination to the laws of his metre is extraordinary in itsminuteness. Of ringing lines there are many; of broadly sonorous orsoftly melodious ones but few; and especially (if one chooses to go intodetails of technic) he seems curiously without that use of the broadvowels which underlies the melody of so many great passages of Englishpoetry. Except in the one remarkable instance of 'How we Carried theGood News from Ghent to Aix, ' there is little onomatopoeia, and almostno note of the flute; no "moan of doves in immemorial elms" or "lucentsirops tinct with cinnamon. " On the other hand, in his management ofmetres like that of 'Love Among the Ruins, ' for instance, he shows adifferent side; the pure lyrics in 'Pippa Passes' and elsewhere singthemselves; and there are memorable cadences in some of the moremeditative poems, like 'By the Fireside. '

The vividness and vigor and truth of Browning's embodiments of charactercome, it is needless to say, from the same power that has created allgreat dramatic work, --the capacity for incarnating not a quality or anideal, but the mixture and balance of qualities that make up the realhuman being. There is not a walking phantom among them, or a lay-figureto hang sentiment on. A writer in the New Review said recently that ofall the poets he remembered, only Shakespeare and Browning never drew aprig. It is this complete absence of the false note that gives tocertain of Browning's poems the finality which is felt in all consummateworks of art, great and small; the sense that they convey, if not thelast word, at least the last necessary word, on their subject. 'Andreadel Sarto' is in its way the whole problem of the artist-ideal, the weakwill and the inner failure, in all times and guises; and at the otherend of the gamut, nobody will ever need again to set forth BishopBlougram's attitude, or even that of Mr. Sludge the Medium. Of theinforming, almost exuberant vitality of all the lyric and dramaticpoems, it is needless to speak; that fairly leaps to meet the reader atevery page of them, and a quality of it is their essential optimism. 

 "What is he buzzing in my ears? Now that I come to die. Do I view the world as a vale of tears? Ah, reverend sir, not I!"

The world was never a vale of tears to Robert Browning, man or poet; buta world of men and women, with plenty of red corpuscles in their blood. 

[Illustration: E. L. Burlingame signature]

 ANDREA DEL SARTO

 CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER"

 But do not let us quarrel any more; No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way? Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I'll content him, --but to-morrow, Love! I often am much wearier than you think, -- This evening more than usual: and it seems As if--forgive now--should you let me sit Here by the window, with your hand in mine, And look a. Half-hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine, the man's bared breast she curls inside. Don't count the time lost, neither: you must serve For each of the five pictures we require; It saves a model. So! keep looking so--My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!--How could you ever prick those perfect ears, Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet--My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his, And I suppose is looked on by in turn, While she looks--no one's: very dear, no less. You smile? why, there's my picture ready made; There's what we painters call our harmony! A common grayness silvers everything, -- All in a twilight, you and I alike-- You at the point of your first pride in me (That's gone, you know)--but I at every point, My youth, my hope, my art being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, And autumn grows, autumn in everything. Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape, As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now looks the life he makes us lead; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! This chamber, for example--turn your head-- All that's behind us! You don't understand Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak: And that cartoon, the second from the door-- It is the thing, Love! so such things should be; Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say, I can do with my pencil what I know, What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep-- Do easily, too--when I say perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, Who listened to the Legate's talk last week; And just as much they used to say in France, At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: I do what many dream of, all their lives-- Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive--you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, -- Yet do much less, so much less, Some One says, (I know his name, no matter)--so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed, beating, stuffed, and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men! at a word-- Praise them, it boils; or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to thyself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken: what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered: what of that? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray, Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! I know both what I want and what might gain; And yet how profitless to know, to sigh "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world" No doubt. Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died five years ago. ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me. ) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, Above and through his art--for it gives way: That arm is wrongly put--and there again-- A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, Its body, so to speak; its soul is right; He meant right--that, a child may understand. Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: But all the play, the insight, and the stretch-- Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, We might have risen to Rafael, I and you. Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think-- More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare-- Had you, with these, these same, but brought a mind! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged "God and the glory! never care for gain. The present by the future, what is that? Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" I might have done it for you. So it seems: Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; The rest avail not. Why do I need you? What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power-- And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here, Poor this long while, --despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside; But they speak sometimes: I must bear it all. Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time, And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, In that humane great monarch's golden look, -- One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, One arm about my shoulder, around my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me, All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, -- And best of all, this, this, this face beyond, This in the background, waiting on my work, To crown the issue with a last reward! A good time, was it not, my kingly days, And had you not grown restless . .. But I know-- 'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray; And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was to have ended there; then, if I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; The Roman's is the better when you pray, But still the other Virgin was his wife"-- Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows My better fortune, I resolve to think, For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, Said one day Agnolo, his very self, To Rafael--I have known it all these years-- (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace wall for Rome to see, Too lifted up in heart because of it) "Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" To Rafael's!--and indeed the arm is wrong. I hardly dare . .. Yet, only you to see, Give the chalk here--quick, thus the line should go! Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those?) If really there was such a chance so lost, -- Is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! This hour has been an hour! Another smile? If you would sit thus by me every night, I should work better--do you comprehend? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now: there's a star; Morello's gone, the watch lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. Come from the window, love, --come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That cousin here again? he waits outside? Must see you--you, and not with me? Those loans? More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint were I but back in France, One picture, just one more--the Virgin's face, Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them--that is, Michel Agnolo-- Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor, Finish the portrait out of hand--there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs: the whole should prove enough To pay for this same cousin's freak. Beside, What's better, and what's all I care about, Get you the thirteen send for the ruff! Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, The cousin! what does he to please you more?

 I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis!--it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died; And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me To cover--the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So still they overcome-- Because there's still Lucrezia, --as I choose. 

 Again the cousin's whistle! Go, my love. 

 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S

 O GALLUPI, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind: But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!

 Have you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings? What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings, Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

 Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by--what you call-- Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival: I was never out of England--it's as if I saw it all. 

 Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May? Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day, When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

 Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red, -- On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed, O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?

 Well, and it was graceful of them: they'd break talk off and afford-- She to bite her mask's black velvet, he to finger on his sword, While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord!

 What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh, Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions--"Must we die?" Those commiserating sevenths--"Life might last! we can but try!"

 "Were you happy?" "Yes. "--"And are you still as happy?" "Yes. And you?"-- "Then, more kisses!" "Did _I_ stop them, when a million seemed so few?" Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!

 So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say! "Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay! I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"

 Then they left you for their pleasure; till in due time, one by one, Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone, Death stepped tacitly, and took them where they never see the sun. 

 But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve, While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve, In you come with your cold music till I creep through every nerve. 

 Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned. "Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned. The soul, doubtless, is immortal--where a soul can be discerned. 

 "Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology, Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree; Butterflies may dread extinction, --you'll not die, it cannot be!

 "As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop, Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop; What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

 "Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold. Dear dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old. 

 CONFESSIONS

 What is he buzzing in my ears? "Now that I come to die Do I view the world as a vale of tears?" Ah, reverend sir, not I!

 What I viewed there once, --what I viewed again Where the physic bottles stand On the table's edge, --is a suburb lane, With a wall to my bedside hand. 

 That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, From a house you could descry O'er the garden wall: is the curtain blue, Or green to a healthy eye?

 To mine, it serves for the old June weather Blue above lane and wall; And that farthest bottle labeled "Ether" Is the house o'ertopping all. 

 At a terrace, somewhat near the stopper, There watched for me, one June, A girl: I know, sir, it's improper, My poor mind's out of tune. 

 Only, there was a way--you crept Close by the side, to dodge Eyes in the house, two eyes except: They styled their house "The Lodge"

 What right had a lounger up their lane? But by creeping very close, With the good wall's help, --their eyes might strain And stretch themselves to O's, Yet never catch her and me together, As she left the attic there, By the rim of the bottle labeled "Ether, " And stole from stair to stair, And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, We loved, sir--used to meet: How sad and bad and mad it was-- But then, how it was sweet!

 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

 Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles, Miles and miles, On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half asleep Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop As they crop-- Was the site once of a city great and gay (So they say); Of our country's very capital, its prince, Ages since, Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. 

 Now, --the country does not even boast a tree, As you see; To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to (else they run Into one). Where the domed and daring palace shot in spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast. 

 And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as this summer-time o'erspreads And imbeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone-- Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. 

 Now, --the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks-- Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. 

 And I know--while thus the quiet-colored eve Smiles to leave To their folding all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray Melt away-- That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb, Till I come. 

 But he looked upon the city every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, --and then, All the men! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. 

 In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force-- Gold, of course. O heart! O blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. 

 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL

 SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE

 Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes, Each in its tether, Sleeping safe in the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels: Clouds overcome it; No, yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights! Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's: He's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous, calm, and dead, Borne on our shoulders. 

 Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather! He whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! My dance is finished"? No, that's the world's way: (keep the mountain side, Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: "What's in the scroll, " quoth he, "thou keepest furled? Show me their shaping, Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage, -- Give!" so he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page; Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead. Accents uncertain: "Time to taste life, " another would have said, "Up with the curtain!" This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, Still there's the comment. Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy. " Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts-- Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick!

 (Here's the town-gate reached; there's the market-place Gaping before us. ) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace: (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he'd learn how to live-- No end to learning: Earn the means first--God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes! Live now or never!" He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever. " Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head; _Calculus_ racked him; Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead; _Tussis_ attacked him. "Now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! (Caution redoubled! Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon. 

 Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! Was it not great? did not he throw on God (He loves the burthen)-- God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? He would not discount life, as fools do here Paid by installment. He ventured neck or nothing--heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered, "Yes! Hence with life's pale lure!" That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here--should he need the next. Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled _Hoti's_ business--let it be!-- Properly based _Oun_-- Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_, Dead from the waist down. 

 Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews! Here's the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know-- Bury this man there? Here--here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying. 

 MY LAST DUCHESS

 FERRARA

 That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design: for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I), And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrists too much, " or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat;" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace, --all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men, --good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech (which I have not) to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark, "--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, -- E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. O sir! she smiled, no doubt, When'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

 UP AT A VILLA--DOWN IN THE CITY

 (As DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY)

 Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

 Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. 

 Well, now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull Just on a mountain edge as bare as the creature's skull, Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!-- scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. 

 But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why! They are stone-faced, white as a curd; there's something to take the eye! Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. 

 What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights; You've the brown-plowed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. 

 Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. 

 Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash Round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash, Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. 

 All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix i' the corn and mingle, Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. Enough of the seasons, --I spare you the months of the fever and chill. 

 Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessèd church-bells begin; No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. By and by there's the traveling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth, Or the Pulcinella-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. At the post-office such a scene picture--the new play, piping hot! And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, "And moreover" (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts of St. Paul has reached, Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached. " Noon strikes, --here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart, With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife; No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. 

 But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate; They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity! Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, And then penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles; One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: _Bang-whang-whang_ goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife, Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

 IN THREE DAYS

 So, I shall see her in three days And just one night, --but nights are short, -- Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn-- Feel, where my life broke off from thine, How fresh the splinters keep and fine, --Only a touch and we combine!

 Too long, this time of year, the days! But nights--at least the nights are short, As night shows where her one moon is, A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, So, life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her! What is worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth?

 O loaded curls, release your store Of warmth and scent, as once before The tingling hair did, lights and darks Outbreaking into fairy sparks When under curl and curl I pried After the warmth and scent inside, Through lights and darks how manifold--The dark inspired, the light controlled! As early Art embrowned the gold. 

 What great fear--should one say, "Three days That change the world might change as well Your fortune; and if joy delays, Be happy that no worse befell. " What small fear--if another says, "Three days and one short night beside May throw no shadow on your ways; But years must teem with change untried, With chance not easily defied, With an end somewhere undescried. " No fear!--or if a fear be born This minute, it dies out in scorn. Fear? I shall see her in three days And one night, --now the nights are short, -- Then just two hours, and that is morn. 

 IN A YEAR

 Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive: Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still. 

 Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him? was it touch of hand, Turn of head? Strange! that very way Love begun: I as little understand Love's decay. 

 When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sung, -- Sweetly too. If I spoke a word, First of all Up his cheek the color sprung, Then he heard. 

 Sitting by my side, At my feet, So he breathed but air I breathed, Satisfied! I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet: I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. 

 "Speak, I love thee best!" He exclaimed: "Let thy love my own foretell!" I confessed: "Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine!"

 Was it wrong to own, Being truth? Why should all the giving prove His alone? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth: Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. 

 That was all I meant, -- To be just, And the passion I had raised To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised Was it strange? Would he loved me yet, On and on, While I found some way undreamed-- Paid my debt! Gave more life and more, Till all gone, He should smile--"She never seemed Mine before. 

 "What, she felt the while, Must I think? Love's so different with us men!" He should smile: "Dying for my sake-- White and pink! Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break?"

 Dear, the pang is brief, Do thy part, Have thy pleasure! How perplexed Grows belief! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart: Crumble it, and what comes next? Is it God?

 EVELYN HOPE

 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed: She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass: Little has yet been changed, I think; The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

 Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love; beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares-- And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true, The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

 No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love: I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. 

 But the time will come, --at last it will, When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red-- And what would you do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead?

 I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me: And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! My heart seemed full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So hush, --I will give you this leaf to keep; See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

 * * * * *

 PROSPICE

 Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch-Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness, and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

 THE PATRIOT

 AN OLD STORY

 It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day. 

 The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels-- But give me your sun from yonder skies" They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

 Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Naught man could do have I left undone; And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. 

 There's nobody on the housetops now-- Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 

 I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 

 Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?"--God might question; now instead, 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. 

 ONE WORD MORE

 To E. B. B. 

 London, September, 1855

 There they are, my fifty men and women, Naming me the fifty poems finished! Take them, Love, the book and me together: Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also. 

 Raphael made a century of sonnets, Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil Else he only used to draw Madonnas: These, the world might view--but one, the volume. Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you. Did she live and love it all her lifetime? Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, Die and let it drop beside her pillow, Where it lay in place of Raphael's glory, Raphael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- Cheek the world was wont to hail a painter's, Raphael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

 You and I would rather read that volume (Taken to his beating bosom by it), Lean and list the bosom-beats of Raphael, Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas-- Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision, Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre-- Seen by us and all the world in circle. 

 You and I will never read that volume. Guido Reni like his own eye's apple Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it. Guido Reni dying, all Bologna Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours the treasure!" Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. 

 Dante once prepared to paint an angel: Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice. " While he mused and traced it and retraced it, (Peradventure with a pen corroded Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for When, his left hand i' the hair o' the wicked, Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, Let the wretch go festering through Florence)-- Dante, who loved well because he hated, Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante standing, studying his angel-- In there broke the folk of his Inferno. Says he--"Certain people of importance" (Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet. " Says the poet--"Then I stopped my painting. "

 You and I would rather see that angel Painted by the tenderness of Dante-- Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno. 

 You and I will never see that picture. While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel, In they broke, those "people of importance"; We and Bice bear the loss forever. 

 What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for one only, (Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- Using nature that's an art to others, Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature. Ay, of all the artists living, loving, None but would forego his proper dowry. Does he paint? he fain would write a poem: Does he write? he fain would paint a picture: Put to proof art alien to the artist's, Once, and only once, and for one only, So to be the man and leave the artist, Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow. 

 Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! He who smites the rock and spreads the water, Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, Even he the minute makes immortal Proves perchance but mortal in the minute, Desecrates belike the deed in doing. While he smites, how can he but remember So he smote before, in such a peril, When they stood and mocked--"Shall smiting help us?" When they drank and sneered--"A stroke is easy!" When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, Throwing him for thanks--"But drought was pleasant. " Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; Thus the doing savors of disrelish; Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, Carelessness or consciousness--the gesture. For he bears an ancient wrong about him, Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- "How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" Guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- "Egypt's flesh-pots--nay, the drought was better. "

 Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! Theirs the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance, Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat. Never dares the man put off the prophet. 

 Did he love one face from out the thousands (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, Were she but the Æthiopian bondslave), He would envy yon dumb patient camel, Keeping a reserve of scanty water Meant to save his own life in the desert; Ready in the desert to deliver (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) Hoard and life together for his mistress. 

 I shall never, in the years remaining, Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues. Make you music that should all-express me; So it seems: I stand on my attainment. This of verse alone, one life allows me; Verse and nothing else have I to give you. Other heights in other lives, God willing: All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love!

 Yet a semblance of resource avails us-- Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, Lines I write the first time and the last time. He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, Makes a strange art of an art familiar, Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. He who blows through bronze may breathe through silver, Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. He who writes may write for once as I do. 

 Love, you saw me gather men and women, Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, Enter each and all, and use their service, Speak from every mouth, --the speech a poem. Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: I am mine and yours--the rest be all men's, Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty. Let me speak this once in my true person, Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: Pray you, look on these, my men and women, Take and keep my fifty poems finished; Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things. 

 Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self! Here in London, yonder late in Florence, Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured. Curving on a sky imbrued with color, Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, Perfect till the nightingales applauded. Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs, Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish. What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, Use to charm him (so to fit a fancy), All her magic ('tis the old sweet mythos). She would turn a new side to her mortal, Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman-- Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, Blind to Galileo on his turret, Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats--him, even! Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal-- When she turns round, comes again in heaven, Opens out anew for worse or better! Proves she like some portent of an iceberg Swimming full upon the ship it founders, Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain? Moses, Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. Like the bodied heaven in his clearness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, When they ate and drank and saw God also!

 What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. Only this is sure--the sight were other, Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, Dying now impoverished here in London. God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her!

 This I say of me, but think of you, Love! This to you--yourself my moon of poets! Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder; Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! There, in turn I stand with them and praise you-- Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out them, Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, Come out on the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, Where I hush and bless myself with silence. 

 Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song--and in my brain I sing it, Drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom!

 R. B. 

ORESTES AUGUSTUS BROWNSON

(1803-1876)

Orestes Brownson, in his time, was a figure of striking originality andinfluence in American literature and American political, philosophical, and religious discussion. His career was an exceptional one; for he wasconnected with some of the most important contemporaneous movements ofthought, and passed through several distinct phases: Presbyterianism, Universalism, Socialism--of a mild and benevolent kind, not to beconfused with the later fiery and destructive socialism of "the Reds";afterward sympathizing somewhat with the aims and tendencies of the NewEngland Transcendentalists; a close intellectual associate of RalphWaldo Emerson; then the apostle of a "new Christianity"--finallybecoming a Roman Catholic. 

[Illustration: ORESTES BROWNSON]

Coming of old Connecticut stock on his father's side, he was born inVermont, September 16th, 1803; and, notwithstanding that he was broughtup in poverty on a farm with small opportunity for education, contrivedin later years to make himself a thorough scholar in various directions, mastering several languages, acquiring a wide knowledge of history, reading deeply in philosophy, and developing marked originality insetting forth new philosophical views. His bent in childhood wasstrongly religious; and he even believed, at that period of his life, that he held long conversations with the sacred personages of HolyScripture. Yet while in manhood he devoted many years and much of hisenergy to preaching, his character was aggressive and his tonecontroversial, he however revealed many traits of real gentleness andhumility, and the mixture of rugged strength and tenderness in hischaracter and his work won him a large following in whatever positionhe took. 

He performed the remarkable feat, when the support of American letterswas slight, of founding and conducting almost single-handed, from 1838to 1843, his famous Quarterly Review, which was a power in the land. Hestarted it again in 1844 as 'Brownson's Quarterly Review, ' and resumedit thirty years later in still a third series. He died in 1876 atDetroit, much of his active career having been passed in Boston, andsome of his later years at Seton Hall, New Jersey. 

His various changes of belief have often been taken as an index ofvacillation; but a simple and candid study of his writings shows thatsuch changes were merely the normal progress of an intensely earnest andsincere mind, which never hesitated to avow its honest convictions norto admit its errors. This is the quality which gives Brownson hisvitality as a mind and an author; and he will be found to be consistentwith conscience throughout. 

His writings are forceful, eloquent, and lucid in style, with aWebsterian massiveness that does not detract from their charm. They filltwenty volumes, divided into groups of essays on Civilization, Controversy, Religion, Philosophy, Scientific Theories, and PopularLiterature, which cover a great and fascinating variety of topics indetail. Brownson was an intense and patriotic American, and his nationalquality comes out strongly in his extended treatise 'The AmericanRepublic' (1865). The best known of his other works is a candid, vigorous, and engaging autobiography entitled 'The Convert' (1853). 

SAINT-SIMONISM

From 'The Convert'

If I drew my doctrine of Union in part from the eclecticism of Cousin, I drew my views of the Church and of the reorganization of therace from the Saint-Simonians, --a philo-sophico-religious or apolitico-philosophical sect that sprung up in France under theRestoration, and figured largely for a year or two under the monarchy ofJuly. Their founder was Claude Henri, Count de Saint-Simon, a descendantof the Due de Saint-Simon, well known as the author of the 'Memoirs. ' Hewas born in 1760, entered the army at the age of seventeen, and theyear after came to this country, where he served with distinction in ourRevolutionary War under Bouillié. After the peace of 1783 he devoted twoyears to the study of our people and institutions, and then returned toFrance. Hardly had he returned before he found himself in the midst ofthe French Revolution, which he regarded as the practical application ofthe principles or theories adopted by the reformers of the sixteenthcentury and popularized by the philosophers of the eighteenth. He lookedupon that revolution, we are told, as having only a destructivemission--necessary, important, but inadequate to the wants of humanity;and instead of being carried away by it as were most of the young men ofhis age and his principles, he set himself at work to amass materialsfor the erection of a new social edifice on the ruins of the old, whichshould stand and improve in solidity, strength, grandeur, andbeauty forever. 

The way he seems to have taken to amass these materials was to engagewith a partner in some grand speculations for the accumulation ofwealth, --and speculations too, it is said, not of the most honorable oreven the most honest character. His plans succeeded for a time, and hebecame very rich, as did many others in those troublous times; but hefinally met with reverses, and lost all but the wrecks of his fortune. He then for a number of years plunged into all manner of vice, andindulged to excess in every species of dissipation; not, we are told, from love of vice, any inordinate desire, or any impure affection, butfor the holy purpose of preparing himself by his experience for thegreat work of redeeming man and securing for him a Paradise on earth. Having gained all that experience could give him in the department ofvice, he then proceeded to consult the learned professors of L'ÉcolePolytechnique for seven or ten years, to make himself master of science, literature, and the fine arts in all their departments, and to placehimself at the level of the last attainments of the race. Thus qualifiedto be the founder of a new social organization, he wrote several books, in which he deposited the germs of his ideas, or rather the germs of thefuture; most of which have hitherto remained unpublished. 

But now that he was so well qualified for his work he found himself abeggar, and had as yet made only a single disciple. He was reduced todespair and attempted to take his own life; but failed, the ball onlygrazing his sacred forehead. His faithful disciple was near him, savedhim, and aroused him into life and hope. When he recovered he found thathe had fallen into a gross error. He had been a materialist, an atheist, and had discarded all religious ideas as long since outgrown by thehuman race. He had proposed to organize the human race with materialsfurnished by the senses alone, and by the aid of positive science. Heowns his fault, and conceives and brings forth a new Christianity, consigned to a small pamphlet entitled 'Nouveau Christianisme, ' whichwas immediately published. This done, his mission was ended, and hedied May 19th, 1825, and I suppose was buried. 

Saint-Simon, the preacher of a new Christianity, very soon attracteddisciples, chiefly from the pupils of the Polytechnic School; ardent andlively young men, full of enthusiasm, brought up without faith in thegospel and yet unable to live without religion of some sort. Among theactive members of the sect were at one time Pierre Leroux, Jules andMichel Chevalier, Lerminier, [and] my personal friend Dr. Poyen, whoinitiated me and so many others in New England into the mysteries ofanimal magnetism. Dr. Poyen was, I believe, a native of the island ofGuadeloupe: a man of more ability than he usually had credit for, ofsolid learning, genuine science, and honest intentions. I knew him welland esteemed him highly. When I knew him his attachment to the newreligion was much weakened, and he often talked to me of the old Church, and assured me that he felt at times that he must return to her bosom. Iowe him many hints which turned my thoughts toward Catholic principles, and which, with God's grace, were of much service to me. These and manyothers were in the sect; whose chiefs, after the death of its founder, were--Bazard, a Liberal and a practical man, who killed himself; andEnfantin, who after the dissolution of the sect sought employment in theservice of the Viceroy of Egypt, and occupies now some important post inconnection with the French railways. 

The sect began in 1826 by addressing the working classes; but theirsuccess was small. In 1829 they came out of their narrow circle, assumeda bolder tone, addressed themselves to the general public, and became inless than eighteen months a Parisian _mode_. In 1831 they purchased theGlobe newspaper, made it their organ, and distributed gratuitously fivethousand copies daily. In 1832 they had established a centralpropagandism in Paris, and had their missionaries in most of thedepartments of France. They attacked the hereditary peerage, and itfell; they seemed to be numerous and strong, and I believed for a momentin their complete success. They called their doctrine a religion, theirministers priests, and their organization a church; and as such theyclaimed to be recognized by the State, and to receive from it asubvention as other religious denominations [did]. But the courtsdecided that Saint-Simonism was not a religion and its ministers werenot religious teachers. This decision struck them with death. Theirprestige vanished. They scattered, dissolved in thin air, and went off, as Carlyle would say, into endless vacuity, as do sooner or later allshams and unrealities. 

Saint-Simon himself, who as presented to us by his disciples is ahalf-mythic personage, seems, so far as I can judge by those of hiswritings that I have seen, to have been a man of large ability andlaudable intentions; but I have not been able to find any new ororiginal thoughts of which he was the indisputable father. His wholesystem, if system he had, is summed up in the two maxims "Eden is beforeus, not behind us" (or the Golden Age of the poets is in the future, notin the past), and "Society ought to be so organized as to tend in themost rapid manner possible to the continuous moral, intellectual, andphysical amelioration of the poorer and more numerous classes. " Hesimply adopts the doctrine of progress set forth with so much flasheloquence by Condorcet, and the philanthropic doctrine with regard tothe laboring classes, or the people, defended by Barbeuf and a largesection of the French Revolutionists. His religion was not so much asthe Theophilanthropy attempted to be introduced by some members of theFrench Directory: it admitted God in name, and in name did not denyJesus Christ, but it rejected all mysteries, and reduced religion tomere socialism. It conceded that Catholicity had been the true Churchdown to the pontificate of Leo X. , because down to that time itsministers had taken the lead in directing the intelligence and labors ofmankind, had aided the progress of civilization, and promoted thewell-being of the poorer and more numerous classes. But since Leo X. , who made of the Papacy a secular principality, it had neglected itsmission, had ceased to labor for the poorer and more numerous classes, had leagued itself with the ruling orders, and lent all its influence touphold tyrants and tyranny. A new church was needed; a church whichshould realize the ideal of Jesus Christ, and tend directly andconstantly to the moral, physical, and social amelioration of the poorerand more numerous classes, --in other words, the greatest happiness inthis life of the greatest number, the principle of Jeremy Bentham andhis Utilitarian school. 

His disciples enlarged upon the hints of the master, and attributed tohim ideas which he never entertained. They endeavored to reduce hishints to a complete system of religion, philosophy, and socialorganization. Their chiefs, I have said, were Amand Bazard andBarthélemy Prosper Enfantin. .. . 

Bazard took the lead in what related to the external, political, andeconomical organization, and Enfantin in what regarded doctrine andworship. The philosophy or theology of the sect or school was derivedprincipally from Hegel, and was a refined Pantheism. Its Christology wasthe unity, not union, of the divine and human; and the Incarnationsymbolized the unity of God and man, or the Divinity manifesting himselfin humanity, and making humanity substantially divine, --the verydoctrine in reality which I myself had embraced even before I had heardof the Saint-Simonians, if not before they had published it. Thereligious organization was founded on the doctrine of the progressivenature of man, and the maxim that all institutions should tend in themost speedy and direct manner possible to the constant amelioration ofthe moral, intellectual, and physical condition of the poorer and morenumerous classes. Socially men were to be divided into threeclasses, --artists, _savans_, and industrials or working men, corresponding to the psychological division of the human faculties. Thesoul has three powers or faculties, --to love, to know, and to act. Thosein whom the love-faculty is predominant belong to the class of artists, those in whom the knowledge-faculty is predominant belong to the classof _savans_, the scientific and the learned, and in fine, those in whomthe act-faculty predominates belong to the industrial class. Thisclassification places every man in the social category for which he isfitted, and to which he is attracted by his nature. These severalclasses are to be hierarchically organized under chiefs or priests, whoare respectively priests of the artists, of the scientific, and of theindustrials, and are, priests and all, to be subjected to a supremeFather, _Père Supréme_, and a Supreme Mother, _Mère Supréme_. 

The economical organization is to be based on the maxims, "To each oneaccording to his capacity, " and "To each capacity according to itswork. " Private property is to be retained, but its transmission byinheritance or testamentary disposition must be abolished. The propertyis to be held by a tenure resembling that of gavel-kind. It belongs tothe community, and the priests, chiefs, or brehons, as the Celtic tribescall them, to distribute it for life to individuals, and to eachindividual according to his capacity. It was supposed that in this waythe advantages of both common and individual property might be secured. Something of this prevailed originally in most nations, and areminiscence of it still exists in the village system among the Slavonictribes of Russia and Poland; and nearly all jurists maintain that thetestamentary right by which a man disposes of his goods after hisnatural death, as well as that by which a child inherits from theparent, is a municipal, not a natural right. 

The most striking feature in the Saint-Simonian scheme was the rank andposition it assigned to woman. It asserted the absolute equality of thesexes, and maintained that either sex is incomplete without the other. Man is an incomplete individual without woman. Hence a religion, adoctrine, a social institution founded by one sex alone is incomplete, and can never be adequate to the wants of the race or a definite order. This idea was also entertained by Frances Wright, and appears to beentertained by all our Women's Rights folk of either sex. The oldcivilization was masculine, not male and female as God made man. Henceits condemnation. The Saint-Simonians, therefore, proposed to place bythe side of their sovereign Father at the summit of their hierarchy asovereign Mother. The man to be sovereign Father they found; but a womanto be sovereign Mother, _Mère Suprême_, they found not. This causedgreat embarrassment, and a split between Bazard and Enfantin. Bazard wasabout marrying his daughter, and he proposed to place her marriage underthe protection of the existing French laws. Enfantin opposed his doingso, and called it a sinful compliance with the prejudices of the world. The Saint-Simonian society, he maintained, was a State, a kingdom withinitself, and should be governed by its own laws and its own chiefswithout any recognition of those without. Bazard persisted, and had themarriage of his daughter solemnized in a legal manner, and for aught Iknow, according to the rites of the Church. A great scandal followed. Bazard charged Enfantin with denying Christian marriage, and withholding loose notions on the subject. Enfantin replied that he neitherdenied nor affirmed Christian marriage; that in enacting the existinglaw on the subject man alone had been consulted, and he could notrecognize it as law till woman had given her consent to it. As yet thesociety was only provisionally organized, inasmuch as they had not yetfound the _Mère Suprême_. The law on marriage must emanate conjointlyfrom the Supreme Father and the Supreme Mother, and it would beirregular and a usurpation for the Supreme Father to undertake alone tolegislate on the subject. Bazard would not submit, and went out and shothimself. Most of the politicians abandoned the association; and PèreEnfantin, almost in despair, dispatched twelve apostles toConstantinople to find in the Turkish harems the Supreme Mother. After ayear they returned and reported that they were unable to find her; andthe society, condemned by the French courts as immoral, broke up, andbroke up because no woman could be found to be its mother. And so theyended, having risen, flourished, and decayed in less than asingle decade. 

The points in the Saint-Simonian movement that arrested my attention andcommanded my belief were what it will seem strange to my readers couldever have been doubted, --its assertion of a religious future for thehuman race, and that religion, in the future as well as in the past, must have an organization, and a hierarchical organization. Itsclassification of men according to the predominant psychological facultyin each, into artists, savans, and industrials, struck me as very well;and the maxims "To each according to his capacity, " and "To eachcapacity according to its works, " as evidently just, and desirable ifpracticable. The doctrine of the Divinity in Humanity, of progress, ofno essential antagonism between the spiritual and the material, and ofthe duty of shaping all institutions for the speediest and continuousmoral, intellectual, and physical amelioration of the poorer and morenumerous classes, I already held. I was rather pleased than otherwisewith the doctrine with regard to property, and thought it a decidedimprovement on that of a community of goods. The doctrine with regard tothe relation of the sexes I rather acquiesced in than approved. I wasdisposed to maintain, as the Indian said, that "woman is the weakercanoe, " and to assert my marital prerogatives; but the equality of thesexes was asserted by nearly all my friends, and I remained generallysilent on the subject, till some of the admirers of Harriet Martineauand Margaret Fuller began to scorn equality and to claim for womansuperiority. Then I became roused, and ventured to assert mymasculine dignity. 

It is remarkable that most reformers find fault with the Christian lawof marriage, and propose to alter the relations which God hasestablished both in nature and the gospel between the sexes; and this isgenerally the rock on which they split. Women do not usually admire menwho cast off their manhood or are unconscious of the rights andprerogatives of the stronger sex; and they admire just as little those"strong-minded women" who strive to excel only in the masculine virtues. I have never been persuaded that it argues well for a people when itswomen are men and its men women. Yet I trust I have always honored andalways shall honor woman. I raise no question as to woman's equality orinequality with man, for comparisons cannot be made between things notof the same kind. Woman's sphere and office in life are as high, asholy, as important as man's, but different; and the glory of both manand woman is for each to act well the part assigned to each byAlmighty God. 

The Saint-Simonian writings made me familiar with the idea of ahierarchy, and removed from my mind the prejudices against the Papacygenerally entertained by my countrymen. Their proposed organization, Isaw, might be good and desirable if their priests, their Supreme Fatherand Mother, could really be the wisest, the best, --not merely thenominal but the real chiefs of society. Yet what security have I thatthey will be? Their power was to have no limit save their own wisdom andlove, but who would answer for it that these would always be aneffectual limit? How were these priests or chiefs to be designated andinstalled in their office? By popular election? But popular electionoften passes over the proper man and takes the improper. Then as to theassignment to each man of a capital proportioned to his capacity tobegin life with, what certainty is there that the rules of strict rightwill be followed? that wrong will not often be done, both voluntarilyand involuntarily? Are your chiefs to be infallible and impeccable?Still the movement interested me, and many of its principles took firmhold of me and held me for years in a species of mental thraldom;insomuch that I found it difficult, if not impossible, either to refutethem or to harmonize them with other principles which I also held, orrather which held me, and in which I detected no unsoundness. Yet Iimbibed no errors from the Saint-Simonians; and I can say of them as ofthe Unitarians, --they did me no harm, but were in my fallen state theoccasion of much good to me. 

FERDINAND BRUNETIÈRE

(1849-)

BY ADOLPHE COHN

Ferdinand Brunetière, the celebrated French literary critic, was born inToulon, the great military Mediterranean sea-port of France, in the year1849. His studies were begun in the college of his native city andcontinued in Paris, in the Lycée Louis le Grand, where in the class ofphilosophy he came under Professor Émile Charles, by whose original andprofound though decidedly sad way of thinking he was powerfullyinfluenced. His own ambition then was to become a teacher in theUniversity of France, an ambition which seemed unlikely to be everrealized, as he failed to secure admission to the celebrated ÉcoleNormale Supérieure, in the competitive examination which leads up tothat school. Strangely enough, about fifteen years later he was, thoughnot in possession of any very high University degree, appointed to theProfessorship of French Literature in the school which he had beenunable to enter as a scholar, and his appointment received the heartyindorsement of all the leading educational authorities in France. 

[Illustration: Ferdiand Brunetière]

For several years after leaving the Lycée Louis le Grand, whilecompleting his literary outfit by wonderfully extensive reading, Ferdinand Brunetière lived on stray orders for work for publishers. Heseldom succeeded in getting these, and when he got any they were seldomfilled. Thus he happened to be commissioned by the firm of Germer, Baillière and Company to write a history of Russia, which never was andto all appearances never will be written. The event which determined thedirection of his career was the acceptance by the Revue des Deux Mondes, in 1875, of an article upon contemporary French novelists. FrançoisBuloz, the energetic and imperious founder and editor of the world-famedFrench bi-monthly, felt that he had found in the young critic the manwhom French literary circles had been waiting for, and who was to beSainte-Beuve's successor; and François Buloz was a man who seldommade mistakes. 

French literary criticism was just then at a very low ebb. Sainte-Beuvehad been dead about five years; his own contemporaries, Edmond Schérerfor instance, were getting old and discouraged; the new generationseemed to be turning unanimously, in consequence of the disasters of theFranco-German war and of the Revolution of September, 1870, to militaryor political activity. The only form of literature which had power toattract young writers was the novel, which they could fill with thedescription of all the passions then agitating the public mind. That aman of real intellectual strength should then give his undividedattention to pure literature seemed a most unlikely phenomenon; but allhad to acknowledge that the unlikely had happened, soon after FerdinandBrunetière had become the regular literary critic of the Revue desDeux Mondes. 

Fortunately the new critic did not undertake to walk in the footsteps ofSainte-Beuve. In the art of presenting to the reader the marrow of awriter's work, of making the writer himself known by the description ofhis surroundings, the narrative of his life, the study of the forces bywhich he was influenced, the illustrious author of the 'Causeries duLundi' remains to this day without a rival or a continuator. FerdinandBrunetière had a different conception of the duties of a literarycritic. The one fault with which thoughtful readers were apt to chargeSainte-Beuve was, that he failed to pass judgment upon the works andwriters; and this failure was often, and not altogether unjustly, ascribed to a certain weakness in his grasp of principles, a certainfaint-heartedness whenever it became necessary to take sides. Any onewho studies Brunetière can easily see that from the start his chiefconcern was to make it impossible for any one to charge him with thesame fault. He came in with a set of principles which he has sinceupheld with remarkable steadfastness and courage. In an age when nearlyevery one was turning to the future and advocating the doctrine and thenecessity of progress, when the chief fear of most men was that theyshould appear too much afraid of change, Brunetière proclaimed time andagain that there was no safety for any nation or set of men except in astaunch adherence to tradition. He bade his readers turn their mindsaway from the current literature of the day, and take hold of theexemplars of excellence handed down to us by the great men of the past. Together with tradition he upheld authority, and therefore preferred toall others the period in which French literature and society had mostwillingly submitted to authority, that is, the seventeenth century andthe reign of Louis XIV. When compelled to speak of the literature of theday, he did it in no uncertain tones. His book 'The Naturalistic Novel'consists of a series of articles in which he studies Zola and hisschool, upholding the old doctrine that there are things in life whichmust be kept out of the domain of art and cannot be therein introducedwithout lowering the ideal of man. Between the naturalistic and theidealistic novel he unhesitatingly declares for the latter, and placesGeorge Sand far above the author of 'L'Assommoir. '

But the great success of his labors cannot be said to have been duesolely or even mainly to the principles he advocated. Other critics haveappeared since--Messrs. Jules Lemaître and Anatole France, forinstance, --who antagonize almost everything that he defends and defendalmost everything that he antagonizes, and whose success has hardly beeninferior to his. Neither is it due to any charm in his style. Brunetière's sentences are compact, --indeed, strongly knittogether, --but decidedly heavy and at times even clumsy. What he has tosay he always says strongly, but not gracefully. He has a remarkableappreciation of the value of the words of the French language, but hisarrangement of them is seldom free from mannerisms. What, then, has madehim the foremost literary critic of the present day? The answer is, knowledge and sincerity. No writer of the present day, save perhapsAnatole France, is so accurately informed of every fact that bears uponliterary history. Every argument he brings forward is supported by anarray of incontrovertible facts that is simply appalling. No one canargue with him who does not first subject himself to the severest kindof training, go through a mass of tedious reading, become familiar withdates to the point of handling them as nimbly as a bank clerk handlesthe figures of a check list. And all this comes forward in Brunetière'sarticles in the most natural, we had almost said casual way. The facttakes its place unheralded in the reasoning. It is there because it hasto be there, not because the writer wishes to make a display of hiswonderful knowledge; and thus it happens that Ferdinand Brunetière'sliterary articles are perhaps the most instructive ones ever written inthe French language. They are moreover admirably trustworthy. It wouldnever come to this author's mind to hide a fact that goes against any ofhis theories. He feels so sure of being in the right that he is alwayswilling to give his opponents all that they can possibly claim. 

Of late years, moreover, it must be acknowledged that Brunetière's mindhas given signs of remarkable broadening. Under the influence of thedoctrine of evolution, he has undertaken to class all literary facts asthe great naturalists of the day have classed the facts of physiology, and to show that literary forms spring from each other by way oftransformation in the same way as do the forms of animal or vegetablelife. Already three works have been produced by him since he enteredupon this new line of development: a history of literary criticism inFrance, which forms the first and hitherto only published volume of alarge work, (The Evolution of Literary Forms); a work on the Frenchdrama, (The Periods of the French Theatre); and a treatise on modernFrench poetry, (The Evolution of French Lyric Poetry during theNineteenth Century. ) The second and last of these were first deliveredby their author from the professor's chair or the lecturer's platform, where he has managed to display some of the greatest gifts of the publicspeaker. Most of M. Brunetière's literary articles have been collectedin book form under the following titles:--(Questions of Criticism) (2vols. ), (History and Criticism) (3 vols. ), (Critical Studies on theHistory of French Literature) (6 vols. ), (The Naturalistic Novel)(1 vol. ). 

At various times remarkable addresses have been delivered by him onpublic occasions, in which he has often represented the French Academysince his election to that illustrious body. Unfortunately hisproductive literary activity has slackened of late. In 1895 he wascalled to the editorship of the Revue des Deux Mondes, and since hisassumption of this responsible editorial position he has published onlytwo or three articles, bearing upon moral and educational questions. 

To pass final judgment upon a man whose development is far fromcompleted is an almost impossible task. Still it may be said that withthe exception of Sainte-Beuve's (Causeries du Lundi) and (NouveauxLundis, ) nothing exists that can teach the reader so much about thehistory of French literature as Brunetière's works. The doctrinal side, to which the author himself undoubtedly attaches the greatestimportance, will strike the reader as often very questionable. Too oftenBrunetière seems in his judgments to be quite unconsciously actuated bya dislike of the accepted opinion of the present day. His love of thepast bears a look of defiance of the present, not calculated to win thereader's assent. But even this does not go without its good side. Itgives to Brunetière's judgments a unity which is seldom if ever found inthe works of those whose chief labors have been spent in the oftenungrateful task of making a hurried public acquainted with theuninterrupted stream of literary production. 

TAINE AND PRINCE NAPOLEON

For the last five or six months, since it has been known that a prince, nephew, cousin, and son of emperors or kings formerly very powerful, hadproposed to answer the libel, as he calls it, written by M. Taine aboutNapoleon, we have been awaiting this reply with an impatience, acuriosity which were equally justified, --although for very differentreasons, --by M. Taine's reputation, by the glorious name of hisantagonist, by the greatness, and finally the national interest ofthe subject. 

The book has just appeared; and if we can say without flattery that ithas revealed to us in the Prince a writer whose existence we had notsuspected, it is because we must at once add that neither in its mannernor in its matter is the book itself what it might have been. PrinceNapoleon did not wish to write a 'Life of Napoleon, ' and nobody expectedthat of him, --for after all, and for twenty different reasons, even hadhe wished it he could not have done it. But to M. Taine's Napoleon, since he did not find in him the true Napoleon, since he declared him tobe as much against nature as against history, he could, and we expectedthat he would, have opposed his own Napoleon. By the side of the"inventions of a writer whose judgment had been misled and whoseconscience had been obscured by passion, "--these are his own words, --hecould have restored, as he promised in his 'Introduction, ' "the man andhis work in their living reality. " And in our imaginations, on which M. Taine's harsh and morose workmanship had engraven the features of amodern Malatesta or modern Sforza, _he_ could at last substitute forthem, as the inheritor of the name and the dynastic claims, the image ofthe founder of contemporary France, of the god of war. Unfortunately, instead of doing so, it is M. Taine himself, it is his analyticalmethod, it is the witnesses whom M. Taine chose as his authorities, thatPrince Napoleon preferred to assail, as a scholar in an Academy whodescants upon the importance of the genuineness of a text, and moreoverwith a freedom of utterance and a pertness of expression which on anyoccasion I should venture to pronounce decidedly insulting. 

For it is a misfortune of princes, when they do us the honor ofdiscussing with us, that they must observe a moderation, a reserve, acourtesy greater even than our own. It will therefore be unanimouslythought that it ill became Prince Napoleon to address M. Taine in a tonewhich M. Taine would decline to use in his answer, out of respect forthe very name which he is accused of _slandering_. It will be thoughtalso that it ill became him, when speaking of Miot de Melito, forinstance, or of many other servants of the imperial government, to seemto ignore that princes also are under an obligation to those who haveserved them well. Perhaps even it may be thought that it poorly becamehim, when discussing or contradicting the 'Memoirs of Madame deRémusat, ' to forget under what auspices the remains of his uncle, theEmperor, were years ago carried in his city of Paris. But what will bethought especially is, that he had something else to do than to splithairs in discussion of evidences; that he had something far better tosay, more peremptory and to the point, and more literary besides, thanto call M. Taine names, to hurl at him the epithets of "Entomologist, Materialist, Pessimist, Destroyer of Reputations, Iconoclast, " and toclass him as a "déboulonneur" among those who, in 1871, pulled down theColonne Vendôme. 

Not, undoubtedly, that M. Taine--and we said so ourselves more than oncewith perfect freedom--if spending much patience and conscientiousness inhis search for documents, has always displayed as much critical spiritand discrimination in the use he made of them. We cannot understand whyin his 'Napoleon' he accepted the testimony of Bourrienne, for instance, any more than recently, in his 'Revolution, ' that of George Duval, oragain, in his 'Ancien Régime, ' that of the notorious Soulavic. M. Taine's documents as a rule are not used by him as a foundation for hisargument; no, he first takes his position, and then he consults hislibrary, or he goes to the original records, with the hope of findingthose documents that will support his reasoning. But granting that, wemust own that though different from M. Taine's, Prince Napoleon'shistorical method is not much better; that though in a different mannerand in a different direction, it is neither less partial nor lesspassionate: and here is a proof of it. 

Prince Napoleon blames M. Taine for quoting "eight times" 'Bourrienne'sMemoirs, ' and then, letting his feelings loose, he takes advantage ofthe occasion and cruelly besmirches Bourrienne's name. Does he tell thetruth or not? is he right at the bottom? I do not know anything aboutit; I do not _wish_ to know anything; I do not need it, since I _know_, from other sources, that 'Bourrienne's Memoirs' are hardly less spuriousthan, say, the 'Souvenirs of the Marquise de Créqui' or the 'Memoirs ofMonsieur d'Artagnan. ' But if these so-called 'Memoirs' are really nothis, what has Bourrienne himself to do here? and suppose the formersecretary of the First Consul to have been, instead of the shamelessembezzler whom Prince Napoleon so fully and so uselessly describes tous, the most honest man in the world, would the 'Memoirs' be any morereliable, since it is a fact that _he_ wrote nothing? . .. 

And now I cannot but wonder at the tone in which those who contradict M. Taine, and especially Prince Napoleon himself, condescend to tell himthat he lacks that which would be needed in order to speak of Napoleonor the Revolution. But who is it, then, that _has_ what is needed inorder to judge Napoleon? Frederick the Great, or Catherine II. , perhaps, --as Napoleon himself desired, "his peers"; or in other words, those who, born as he was for war and government, can only admire, justify, and glorify themselves in him. And who will judge theRevolution? Danton. We suppose, or Robespierre, --that is, the men whowere the Revolution itself. No: the real judge will be the averageopinion of men; the force that will create, modify, correct this averageopinion, the historians will be; and among the historians of our time, in spite of Prince Napoleon, it will be M. Taine for a large share. 

THE LITERATURES OF FRANCE, ENGLAND, AND GERMANY

Twice at least in the course of their long history, it is known that theliterature and even the language of France has exerted over the whole ofEurope an influence, whose universal character other languages perhapsmore harmonious, --Italian for instance, --and other literatures moreoriginal in certain respects, like English literature, have neverpossessed. It is in a purely French form that our mediæval poems, our'Chansons de Geste, ' our 'Romances of the Round Table, ' our _fabliaux_themselves, whencesoever they came, --Germany or Tuscany, England orBrittany, Asia or Greece, --conquered, fascinated, charmed, from one endof Europe to the other, the imaginations of the Middle Ages. Theamorous languor and the subtlety of our "courteous poetry" are breathedno less by the madrigals of Shakespeare himself than by Petrarch'ssonnets; and after such a long lapse of time we still discover somethingthat comes from us even in the Wagnerian drama, for instance in'Parsifal' or in 'Tristan and Isolde. ' A long time later, in a Europebelonging entirely to classicism, from the beginning of the seventeenthto the end of the eighteenth century, during one hundred and fifty yearsor even longer, French literature possessed a real sovereignty in Italy, in Spain, in England, and in Germany. Do not the names of Algarotti, Bettinelli, Beccaria, Filengieri, almost belong to France? What shall Isay of the famous Gottschedt? Shall I recall the fact that in hisvictorious struggle against Voltaire, Lessing had to call in Diderot'sassistance? And who ignores that if Rivarol wrote his 'Discourse uponthe Universality of the French Language, ' it can be charged neither tohis vanity nor to our national vanity, since he was himself halfItalian, and the subject had been proposed by the Academy of Berlin?

All sorts of reasons have been given for this universality of Frenchliterature: some were statistical, if I may say so, some geographical, political, linguistic. But the true one, the good one, is different: itmust be found in the supremely sociable character of the literatureitself. If at that time our great writers were understood andappreciated by everybody, it is because they were addressing everybody, or better, because they were speaking to all concerning the interests ofall. They were attracted neither by exceptions nor by peculiarities:they cared to treat only of man in general, or as is also said, of theuniversal man, restrained by the ties of human society; and their verysuccess shows that below all that distinguishes, say, an Italian from aGerman, this universal man whose reality has so often been discussed, persists and lives, and though constantly changing never loses his ownlikeness. .. . 

In comparison with the literature of France, thus defined andcharacterized by its sociable spirit, the literature of England is anindividualistic literature. Let us put aside, as should be done, thegeneration of Congreve and Wycherley, perhaps also the generation ofPope and Addison, --to which, however, we ought not to forget that Swiftalso belonged;--it seems that an Englishman never writes except in orderto give to himself the external sensation of his own personality. Thence his _humor_, which may be defined as the expression of thepleasure he feels in thinking like nobody else. Thence, in England, theplenteousness, the wealth, the amplitude of the lyric vein; it beinggranted that _individualism_ is the very spring of lyric poetry, andthat an ode or an elegy is, as it were, the involuntary surging, theoutflowing of what is most intimate, most secret, most peculiar in thepoet's soul. Thence also the _eccentricity_ of all the great Englishwriters when compared with the rest of the nation, as though they becameconscious of themselves only by distinguishing themselves from those whoclaim to differ from them least. But is it not possible to otherwisecharacterize the literature of England? It will be easily conceived thatI dare not assert such a thing; all I say here is, that I cannot betterexpress the differences which distinguish that literature from our own. 

That is also all I claim, in stating that the essential character of theliterature of Germany is, that it is _philosophical_. The philosophersthere are poets, and the poets are philosophers. Goethe is to be foundno more, or no less, in his 'Theory of Colors' or in his 'Metamorphosisof Plants, ' than in his 'Divan' or his 'Faust'; and lyrism, if I may usethis trite expression, "is overflowing" in Schleiermacher's theology andin Schelling's philosophy. Is this not perhaps at least one of thereasons of the inferiority of the German drama? It is surely the reasonof the depth and scope of Germanic poetry. Even in the masterpieces ofGerman literature it seems that there is mixed something indistinct, orrather mysterious, _suggestive_ in the extreme, which leads us tothought by the channel of the dream. But who has not been struck bywhat, under a barbarous terminology, there is of attractive, and as suchof eminently poetical, of realistic and at the same time idealistic, inthe great systems of Kant and Fichte, Hegel and Schopenhauer? Assuredlynothing is further removed from the character of our French literature. We can here understand what the Germans mean when they charge us with alack of depth. Let them forgive us if _we_ do not blame their literaturefor not being the same as ours. 

For it is good that it be thus, and for five or six hundred years thisit is that has made the greatness not only of European literature, butof Western civilization itself; I mean that which all the great nations, after slowly elaborating it, as it were, in their national isolation, have afterwards deposited in the common treasury of the human race. Thus, to this one we owe the sense of mystery, and we might say therevelation of what is beautiful, in that which remains obscure andcannot be grasped. To another we owe the sense of art, and what may becalled the appreciation of the power of form. A third one has handed tous what was most heroic in the conception of chivalrous honor. And toanother, finally, we owe it that we know what is both most ferocious andnoblest, most wholesome and most to be feared, in human pride. The sharethat belongs to us Frenchmen was, in the meanwhile, to bind, to fusetogether, and as it were to unify under the idea of the general societyof mankind, the contradictory and even hostile elements that may haveexisted in all that. No matter whether our inventions and ideas were, bytheir origin, Latin or Romance, Celtic or Gallic, Germanic even, if youplease, the whole of Europe had borrowed them from us in order to adaptthem to the genius of its different races. Before re-admitting them inour turn, before adopting them after they had been thus transformed, weasked only that they should be able to serve the progress of reason andof humanity. What was troublous in them we clarified; what wascorrupting we corrected; what was local we generalized; what wasexcessive we brought down to the proportions of mankind. Have we notsometimes also lessened their grandeur and altered their purity? IfCorneille has undoubtedly brought nearer to us the still somewhatbarbaric heroes of Guillem de Castro, La Fontaine, when imitating theauthor of the Decameron, has made him more indecent than he is in hisown language; and if the Italians have no right to assail Molière forborrowing somewhat from them, the English may well complain thatVoltaire failed to understand Shakespeare. But it is true none the lessthat in disengaging from the particular man of the North or the Souththis idea of a universal man, for which we have been so oftenreviled, --if any one of the modern literatures has breathed in itsentirety the spirit of the public weal and of civilization, it is theliterature of France. And this ideal cannot possibly be as empty as hastoo often been asserted; since, as I endeavored to show, from Lisbon toStockholm and from Archangel to Naples, it is its manifestations thatforeigners have loved to come across in the masterpieces, or better, inthe whole sequence of the history of our literature. 

GIORDANO BRUNO

(1548-1600)

Fillippo Bruno, known as Giordano Bruno, was born at Nola, near Naples, in 1548. This was eight years after the death of Copernicus, whosesystem he eagerly espoused, and ten years before the birth of Bacon, with whom he associated in England. Of an ardent, poetic temperament, heentered the Dominican order in Naples at the early age of sixteen, doubtless attracted to conventual life by the opportunities of study itoffered to an eager intellect. Bruno had been in the monastery nearlythirteen years when he was accused of heresy in attacking some of thedogmas of the Church. He fled first to Rome and then to Northern Italy, where he wandered about for three seasons from city to city, teachingand writing. In 1579 he arrived at Geneva, then the stronghold of theCalvinists. Coming into conflict with the authorities there on accountof his religious opinions, he was thrown into prison. He escaped andwent to Toulouse, at that time the literary centre of Southern France, where he lectured for a year on Aristotle. His restless spirit, however, drove him on to Paris. Here he was made professor extraordinary atthe Sorbonne. 

Although his teachings were almost directly opposed to the philosophictenets of the time, attacking the current dogmas, and Aristotle, theidol of the schoolmen, yet such was the power of Bruno's eloquence andthe charm of his manner that crowds flocked to his lecture-room, and hebecame one of the most popular foreign teachers the university hadknown. Under pretense of expounding the writings of Thomas Aquinas, heset forth his own philosophy. He also spoke much on the art of memory, amplifying the writings of Raymond Lully; and these principles, formulated by the monk of the thirteenth century and taken up again bythe free-thinkers of the sixteenth, are the basis of all the present-daymnemonics. 

But Bruno went even further. He attracted the attention of King HenryIII. Of France, who in 1583 introduced him to the French ambassador toEngland, Castelnuovo di Manvissière. Going to London, he spent threeyears in the family of this nobleman, more as friend than dependent. They were the happiest, or at least the most restful years of his stormylife. England was just then entering on the glorious epoch of herElizabethan literature. Bruno came into the brilliant court circles, meeting even the Queen, who cordially welcomed all men of culture, especially the Italians. The astute monk reciprocated her good-will bypaying her the customary tribute of flattery. He won the friendship ofSir Philip Sidney, to whom he dedicated two of his books, and enjoyedthe acquaintance of Spenser, Sir Fulke Greville, Dyer, Harvey, SirWilliam Temple, Bacon, and other wits and poets of the day. 

At that time--somewhere about 1580--Shakespeare was still serving hisapprenticeship as playwright, and had perhaps less claim on the noticeof the observant foreigner than his elder contemporaries. London wasstill a small town, where the news of the day spread rapidly, and where, no doubt, strangers were as eagerly discussed as they are now withinnarrow town limits. Bruno's daring speculations could not remain theexclusive property of his own coterie. And as Shakespeare had thefaculty of absorbing all new ideas afloat in the air, he would hardlyhave escaped the influence of the teacher who proclaimed in proudself-confidence that he was come to arouse men out of their theologicalstagnation. His influence on Bacon is more evident, because of theirfriendly associations. Bruno lectured at Oxford, but the Englishuniversity found less favor in his eyes than English court life. Pedantry had indeed set its fatal mark on scholarship, not only on theContinent but in England. Aristotle was still the god of the pedants ofthat age, and dissent from his teaching was heavily punished, for thedry dust of learning blinded the eyes of the scholastics to new truths. 

Bruno, the knight-errant of these truths, devoted all his life toscourging pedantry, and dissented _in toto_ from the idol of theschools. No wonder he and Oxford did not agree together. He wittilycalls her "the widow of sound learning, " and again, "a constellation ofpedantic, obstinate ignorance and presumption, mixed with a clownishincivility that would tax the patience of Job. " He lashed theshortcomings of English learning in 'La Cena delle Ceneri' (AshWednesday Conversation). But Bruno's roving spirit, and perhaps also hisheterodox tendencies, drove him at last from England, and for the nextfive years he roamed about Germany, leading the life of the wanderingscholars of the time, always involved in conflicts and controversieswith the authorities, always antagonistic to public opinion. Flying inthe face of the most cherished traditions, he underwent the commonexperience of all prophets: the minds he was bent on awakening refusedto be aroused. 

Finally he was invited by Zuone Mocenigo of Venice to teach him thehigher and secret learning. The Venetian supposed that Bruno, with morethan human erudition, possessed the art of conveying knowledge into theheads of dullards. Disappointed in this expectation, he quarreled withhis teacher, and in a spirit of revenge picked out of Bruno's writingsa mass of testimony sufficient to convict him of heresy. This he turnedover to the Inquisitor at Venice, Bruno was arrested, convicted, andsent to the Inquisition in Rome. When called upon there to recant, hereplied, "I ought not to recant, and I will not recant. " He wasaccordingly confined in prison for seven years, then sentenced to death. On hearing the warrant he said, "It may be that you fear more to deliverthis judgment than I to bear it. " On February 17th, 1600, he was burnedat the stake in the Campo de' Fiori at Rome. He remained steadfast tothe end, saying, "I die a martyr, and willingly. " His ashes were castinto the Tiber. Two hundred and fifty-nine years afterwards, his statuewas unveiled on the very spot where he suffered; and the Italiangovernment is bringing out (1896) the first complete edition, the'National Edition, ' of his works. 

In their substance Bruno's writings belong to philosophy rather than toliterature, although they are still interesting both historically andbiographically as an index of the character of the man and of the temperof the time. Many of the works have either perished or are hidden awayin inaccessible archives. For two hundred years they were tabooed, andas late as 1836 forbidden to be shown in the public library of Dresden. He published twenty-five works in Latin and Italian, and left manyothers incomplete, for in all his wanderings he was continually writing. The eccentric titles show his desire to attract attention: as 'The Workof the Great Key, ' 'The Exploration of the Thirty Seals, ' etc. The firstextant work is 'Il Candelajo' (The Taper), a comedy which in its licenseof language and manner vividly reflects the time. In the dedication hediscloses his philosophy: 'Time takes away everything and giveseverything. ' The 'Spaccio della Bestia Trionfante' (Expulsion of theTriumphant Beast), the most celebrated of his works, is an attack on thesuperstitions of the day, a curious medley of learning, imagination, andbuffoonery. 'Degl' Eroici Furori' (The Heroic Enthusiasts) is the mostinteresting to modern readers, and in its majestic exaltation and poeticimagery is a true product of Italian culture. 

Bruno was evidently a man of vast intellect and of immense erudition. His philosophic speculations comprehended not only the ancient thought, and that current at his time, but also reached out toward the future andthe results of modern science. He perceived some of the facts which werelater formulated in the theory of evolution. "The mind of man differsfrom that of lower animals and of plants not in quality but only inquantity. .. . Each individual is the resultant of innumerableindividuals. Each species is the Starting point for the next. .. . Noindividual is the same to-day as yesterday. "

Not only in this divination of coming truths is he modern, but also inhis methods of investigation. Reason was to him the guide to truth. In astudy of him Lewes says:--"Bruno was a true Neapolitan child--as ardentas its soil . .. As capricious as its varied climate. There was arestless energy which fitted him to become the preacher of a newcrusade--urging him to throw a haughty defiance in the face of everyauthority in every country, --an energy which closed his wild adventurouscareer at the stake. " He was distinguished also by a rich fancy, avaried humor, and a chivalrous gallantry, which constantly remind usthat the intellectual athlete is an Italian, and an Italian of thesixteenth century. 

A DISCOURSE OF POETS

From 'The Heroic Enthusiasts'

_Cicada_--Say, what do you mean by those who vaunt themselves of myrtleand laurel?

_Tansillo_--Those may and do boast of the myrtle who sing of love: ifthey bear themselves nobly, they may wear a crown of that plantconsecrated to Venus, of which they know the potency. Those may boast ofthe laurel who sing worthily of things pertaining to heroes, substituting heroic souls for speculative and moral philosophy, praisingthem and setting them as mirrors and exemplars for political andcivil actions. 

_Cicada_--There are then many species of poets and crowns?

_Tansillo_--Not only as many as there are Muses, but a great many more;for although genius is to be met with, yet certain modes and species ofhuman ingenuity cannot be thus classified. 

_Cicada_--There are certain schoolmen who barely allow Homer to be apoet, and set down Virgil, Ovid, Martial, Hesiod, Lucretius, and manyothers as versifiers, judging them by the rules of poetry of Aristotle. 

_Tansillo_--Know for certain, my brother, that such as these are beasts. They do not consider that those rules serve principally as a frame forthe Homeric poetry, and for other similar to it; and they set up one asa great poet, high as Homer, and disallow those of other vein and artand enthusiasm, who in their various kinds are equal, similar, or greater. 

_Cicada_--So that Homer was not a poet who depended upon rules, but wasthe cause of the rules which serve for those who are more apt atimitation than invention, and they have been used by him who, being nopoet, yet knew how to take the rules of Homeric poetry into service, soas to become, not a poet or a Homer, but one who apes the Museof others?

_Tansillo_--Thou dost well conclude that poetry is not born in rules, oronly slightly and accidentally so: the rules are derived, from thepoetry, and there are as many kinds and sorts of true rules as there arekinds and sorts of true poets. 

_Cicada_--How then are the true poets to be known?

_Tansillo_--By the singing of their verses: in that singing they givedelight, or they edify, or they edify and delight together. 

_Cicada_--To whom then are the rules of Aristotle useful?

_Tansillo_--To him who, unlike Homer, Hesiod, Orpheus, and others, couldnot sing without the rules of Aristotle, and who, having no Muse of hisown, would coquette with that of Homer. 

_Cicada_--Then they are wrong, those stupid pedants of our days, whoexclude from the number of poets those who do not use words andmetaphors conformable to, or whose principles are not in union with, those of Homer and Virgil; or because they do not observe the custom ofinvocation, or because they weave one history or tale with another, orbecause they finish the song with an epilogue on what has been said anda prelude on what is to be said, and many other kinds of criticism andcensure; from whence it seems they would imply that they themselves, ifthe fancy took them, could be the true poets: and yet in fact they areno other than worms, that know not how to do anything well, but are bornonly to gnaw and befoul the studies and labors of others; and not beingable to attain celebrity by their own virtue and ingenuity, seek to putthemselves in the front, by hook or by crook, through the defects anderrors of others. 

_Tansillo_--There are as many sorts of poets as there are sentiments andideas; and to these it is possible to adapt garlands, not only of everyspecies of plant, but also of other kinds of material. So the crowns ofpoets are made not only of myrtle and of laurel, but of vine leaves forthe white-wine verses, and of ivy for the bacchanals; of olive forsacrifice and laws; of poplar, of elm, and of corn for agriculture; ofcypress for funerals, and innumerable others for other occasions; and ifit please you, also of the material signified by a good fellow when heexclaimed:

 "O Friar Leek! O Poetaster! That in Milan didst buckle on thy wreath Composed of salad, sausage, and the pepper-caster. "

_Cicada_--Now surely he of divers moods, which he exhibits in variousways, may cover himself with the branches of different plants, and mayhold discourse worthily with the Muses; for they are his aura orcomforter, his anchor or support, and his harbor, to which he retires intimes of labor, of agitation, and of storm. Hence he cries:--"O Mountainof Parnassus, where I abide; Muses, with whom I converse; Fountain ofHelicon, where I am nourished; Mountain, that affordest me a quietdwelling-place; Muses, that inspire me with profound doctrines;Fountain, that cleansest me; Mountain, on whose ascent my heart uprises;Muses, that in discourse revive my spirits; Fountain, whose arbors coolmy brows, --change my death into life, my cypress to laurels, and myhells into heavens: that is, give me immortality, make me a poet, renderme illustrious!"

_Tansillo_--Well; because to those whom Heaven favors, the greatestevils turn to greatest good; for needs or necessities bring forth laborsand studies, and these most often bring the glory of immortal splendor. 

_Cicada_--For to die in one age makes us live in all the rest. 

 CANTICLE OF THE SHINING ONES

 A Tribute to English Women, from 'The Nolan'

 "Nothing I envy, Jove, from this thy sky, " Spake Neptune thus, and raised his lofty crest. "God of the waves, " said Jove, "thy pride runs high; What more wouldst add to own thy stern behest?"

 "Thou, " spake the god, "dost rule the fiery span, The circling spheres, the glittering shafts of day; Greater am I, who in the realm of man Rule Thames, with all his Nymphs in fair array. 

 "In this my breast I hold the fruitful land, The vasty reaches of the trembling sea; And what in night's bright dome, or day's, shall stand Before these radiant maids who dwell with me?"

 "Not thine, " said Jove, "god of the watery mount, To exceed my lot; but thou my lot shalt share: Thy heavenly maids among my stars I'll count, And thou shalt own the stars beyond compare!"

 THE SONG OF THE NINE SINGERS

 [_The first sings and plays the cithern_. ]

 O cliffs and rocks! O thorny woods! O shore! O hills and dales! O valleys, rivers, seas! How do your new-discovered beauties please? O Nymph, 'tis yours the guerdon rare, If now the open skies shine fair; O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er!

 [_The second sings and plays to his mandolin_. ]

 O happy wanderings, well spent and o'er! Say then, O Circe, these heroic tears, These griefs, endured through tedious months and years, Were as a grace divine bestowed If now our weary travail is no more. 

 [_The third sings and plays to his lyre_. ]

 If now our weary travail is no more! If this sweet haven be our destined rest, Then naught remains but to be blest, To thank our God for all his gifts, Who from our eyes the veil uplifts, Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore, [_The fourth sings to the viol_. ]

 Where shines the light upon the heavenly shore! O blindness, dearer far than others' sight! O sweeter grief than earth's most sweet delight! For ye have led the erring soul By gradual steps to this fair goal, And through the darkness into light we soar. 

 [_The fifth sings to a Spanish timbrel_. ]

 And through the darkness into light we soar! To full fruition all high thought is brought, With such brave patience that ev'n we At least the only path can see, And in his noblest work our God adore. 

 [_The sixth sings to a lute_. ]

 And in his noblest work our God adore! God doth not will joy should to joy succeed, Nor ill shall be of other ill the seed; But in his hand the wheel of fate Turns, now depressed and now elate, Evolving day from night for evermore. 

 [_The seventh sings to the Irish harp_. ]

 Evolving day from night for evermore! And as yon robe of glorious nightly fire Pales when the morning beams to noon aspire, Thus He who rules with law eternal, Creating order fair diurnal, Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor. 

 [_The eighth plays with a viol and bow_. ]

 Casts down the proud and doth exalt the poor! And with an equal hand maintains The boundless worlds which He sustains, And scatters all our finite sense At thought of His omnipotence, Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more. 

 [_The ninth plays upon the rebeck_. ]

 Clouded awhile, to be revealed once more! Thus neither doubt nor fear avails; O'er all the incomparable End prevails, O'er fair champaign and mountain, O'er river-brink and fountain, And o'er the shocks of seas and perils of the shore. 

 Translation of Isa Blagden. 

 OF IMMENSITY

 From Frith's 'Life of Giordano Bruno'

 'Tis thou, O Spirit, dost within my soul This weakly thought with thine own life amend; Rejoicing, dost thy rapid pinions lend Me, and dost wing me to that lofty goal Where secret portals ope and fetters break, And thou dost grant me, by thy grace complete, Fortune to spurn, and death; O high retreat, Which few attain, and fewer yet forsake! Girdled with gates of brass in every part, Prisoned and bound in vain, 'tis mine to rise Through sparkling fields of air to pierce the skies, Sped and accoutred by no doubting heart, Till, raised on clouds of contemplation vast, Light, leader, law, Creator, I attain at last. 

 LIFE WELL LOST

 Winged by desire and thee, O dear delight! As still the vast and succoring air I tread, So, mounting still, on swifter pinions sped, I scorn the world, and heaven receives my flight. And if the end of Ikaros be nigh, I will submit, for I shall know no pain: And falling dead to earth, shall rise again; What lowly life with such high death can vie? Then speaks my heart from out the upper air, "Whither dost lead me? sorrow and despair Attend the rash. " and thus I make reply:-- "Fear thou no fall, nor lofty ruin sent; Safely divide the clouds, and die content, When such proud death is dealt thee from on high. "

 PARNASSUS WITHIN

 O heart, 'tis you my chief Parnassus are, Where for my safety I must ever climb. My wingèd thoughts are Muses, who from far Bring gifts of beauty to the court of Time; And Helicon, that fair unwasted rill, Springs newly in my tears upon the earth, And by those streams and nymphs, and by that hill, It pleased the gods to give a poet birth. No favoring hand that comes of lofty race, No priestly unction, nor the grant of kings, Can on me lay such lustre and such grace, Nor add such heritage; for one who sings Hath a crowned head, and by the sacred bay, His heart, his thoughts, his tears, are consecrate alway. 

 COMPENSATION

 The moth beholds not death as forth he flies Into the splendor of the living flame; The hart athirst to crystal water hies, Nor heeds the shaft, nor fears the hunter's aim; The timid bird, returning from above To join his mate, deems not the net is nigh; Unto the light, the fount, and to my love, Seeing the flame, the shaft, the chains, I fly; So high a torch, love-lighted in the skies, Consumes my soul; and with this bow divine Of piercing sweetness what terrestrial vies? This net of dear delight doth prison mine; And I to life's last day have this desire-- Be mine thine arrows, love, and mine thy fire. 

 LIFE FOR SONG

 Come Muse, O Muse, so often scorned by me, The hope of sorrow and the balm of care, -- Give to me speech and song, that I may be Unchid by grief; grant me such graces rare As other ministering souls may never see Who boast thy laurel, and thy myrtle wear. I know no joy wherein thou hast not part, My speeding wind, my anchor, and my goal, Come, fair Parnassus, lift thou up my heart; Come, Helicon, renew my thirsty soul. A cypress crown, O Muse, is thine to give, And pain eternal: take this weary frame, Touch me with fire, and this my death shall live On all men's lips and in undying fame. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

(1794-1878)

BY GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP

Distinguished as he was by the lofty qualities of his verse, WilliamCullen Bryant held a place almost unique in American literature, by theunion of his activity as a poet with his eminence as a citizen and aninfluential journalist, throughout an uncommonly long career. Two traitsstill further define the peculiarity of his position--his precociousdevelopment, and the evenness and sustained vigor of all his poetic workfrom the beginning to the end. He began writing verse at the age ofeight; at ten he made contributions in this kind to the county gazette, and produced a finished and effective rhymed address, read at his schoolexamination, which became popular for recitation; and in his thirteenthyear, during the Presidency of Thomas Jefferson, he composed a politicalsatire, 'The Embargo. ' This, being published, was at first supposed bymany to be the work of a man, attracted much attention and praise, andpassed into a second edition with other shorter pieces. 

But these, while well wrought in the formal eighteenth-century fashion, showed no special originality. It was with 'Thanatopsis, ' written in1811, when he was only seventeen, that his career as a poet of originaland assured strength began. 'Thanatopsis' was an inspiration of theprimeval woods of America, of the scenes that surrounded the writer inyouth. At the same time it expressed with striking independence andpower a fresh conception of "the universality of Death in the naturalorder. " As has been well said, "it takes the idea of death out of itstheological aspects and restores it to its proper place in the vastscheme of things. This in itself was a mark of genius in a youth of histime and place. " Another American poet, Stoddard, calls it the greatestpoem ever written by so young a man. The author's son-in-law andbiographer, Parke Godwin, remarks upon it aptly, "For the first time onthis continent a poem was written destined to general admiration andenduring fame;" and this indeed is a very significant point, that itbegan the history of true poetry in the United States, --a fact whichfurther secured to Bryant his exceptional place. The poem remains aclassic of the English language, and the author himself never surpassedthe high mark attained in it; although the balanced and lasting natureof his faculty is shown in a pendant to this poem, which he created inhis old age and entitled 'The Flood of Years. ' The last is equal to thefirst in dignity and finish, but is less original, and has never gaineda similar fame. 

Another consideration regarding Bryant is, that representing a moderndevelopment of poetry under American inspiration, he was also adescendant of the early Massachusetts colonists, being connected withthe Pilgrim Fathers through three ancestral lines. Born at Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3d, 1794, the son of a stalwart but studiouscountry physician of literary tastes, he inherited the strong religiousfeeling of this ancestry, which was united in him with a deep andsensitive love of nature. This led him to reflect in his poems thestrength and beauty of American landscape, vividly as it had neverbefore been mirrored; and the blending of serious thought and innatepiety with the sentiment for nature so reflected gave a new andimpressive result. 

Like many other long-lived men, Bryant suffered from delicate health inthe earlier third of his life: there was a tendency to consumption inhis otherwise vigorous family stock. He read much, and was muchinterested in Greek literature and somewhat influenced by it. But healso lived a great deal in the open air, rejoiced in the boisterousgames and excursions in the woods with his brothers and sisters, andtook long rambles alone among the hills and wild groves; being then, asalways afterwards, an untiring walker. After a stay of only seven monthsat Williams College, he studied law, which he practiced for some eightyears in Plainfield and Great Barrington. In the last-named village hewas elected a tithingman, charged with the duty of keeping order in thechurches and enforcing the observance of Sunday. Chosen town clerk soonafterwards, at a salary of five dollars a year, he kept the records ofthe town with his own hand for five years, and also served as justice ofthe peace with power to hear cases in a lower court. These biographicalitems are of value, as showing his close relation to the self-governmentof the people in its simpler forms, and his early practical familiaritywith the duties of a trusted citizen. 

Meanwhile, however, he kept on writing at intervals, and in 1821 readbefore the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard a long poem, 'The Ages, ' akind of composition more in favor at that period than in later days, being a general review of the progress of man in knowledge and virtue. With the passage of time it has not held its own as against some of hisother poems, although it long enjoyed a high reputation; but its successon its original hearing was the cause of his bringing together his firstvolume of poems, hardly more than a pamphlet, in the same year. It madehim famous with the reading public of the United States, and won somerecognition in England. In this little book were contained, besides 'TheAges' and 'Thanatopsis, ' several pieces which have kept their hold uponpopular taste; such as the well-known lines 'To a Waterfowl' and the'Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood. '

[Illustration: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ]

The year of its publication also brought into the world Cooper's 'TheSpy, ' Irving's 'Sketch Book' and 'Bracebridge Hall, ' with various othersignificant volumes, including Channing's early essays and DanielWebster's great Plymouth Oration. It was evident that a nativeliterature was dawning brightly; and as Bryant's productions now cameinto demand, and he had never liked the profession of law, he quitted itand went to New York in 1825, there to seek a living by his pen as "aliterary adventurer. " The adventure led to ultimate triumph, but notuntil after a long term of dark prospects and hard struggles. 

Even in his latest years Bryant used to declare that his favorite amonghis poems--although it is one of the least known--was 'Green River';perhaps because it recalled the scenes of young manhood, when he wasabout entering the law, and contrasted the peacefulness of that streamwith the life in which he would be

 "Forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd, Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud. "

This might be applied to much of his experience in New York, where heedited the New York Review and became one of the editors, then aproprietor, and finally chief editor of the Evening Post. A great partof his energies now for many years was given to his journalisticfunction, and to the active outspoken discussion of important politicalquestions; often in trying crises and at the cost of harsh unpopularity. Success, financial as well as moral, came to him within the nextquarter-century, during which laborious interval he had likewisemaintained his interest and work in pure literature and produced newpoems from time to time in various editions. 

From this point on until his death, June 12th, 1878, in hiseighty-fourth year, he was the central and commanding figure in theenlarging literary world of New York. His newspaper had gained a potentreputation, and it brought to bear upon public affairs a stronginfluence of the highest sort. Its editorial course and tone, as well asthe earnest and patriotic part taken by Bryant in popular questions andnational affairs, without political ambition or office-holding, hadestablished him as one of the most distinguished citizens of themetropolis, no less than its most renowned poet. His presence andco-operation were indispensable in all great public functions orhumanitarian and intellectual movements. In 1864 his seventieth birthdaywas celebrated at the Century Club with extraordinary honors. In 1875, again, the two houses of the State Legislature at Albany paid him thecompliment, unprecedented in the annals of American authorship, ofinviting him to a reception given to him in their official capacity. Another mark of the abounding esteem in which he was held among hisfellow-citizens was the presentation to him in 1876 of a rich silvervase, commemorative of his life and works. He was now a wealthy man; yethis habits of life remained essentially unchanged. His tastes weresimple, his love of nature was still ardent; his literary and editorialindustry unflagging. 

Besides his poems, Bryant wrote two short stories for 'Tales of theGlauber Spa'; and published 'Letters of a Traveler' in 1850, as a resultof three journeys to Europe and the Orient, together with various publicaddresses. His style as a writer of prose is clear, calm, dignified, anddenotes exact observation and a wide range of interests. So too hiseditorial articles in the Evening Post, some of which have beenpreserved in his collected writings, are couched in serene and forcibleEnglish, with nothing of the sensational or the colloquial about them. They were a fitting medium of expression for his firm conscientiousnessand integrity as a journalist. 

But it is as a poet, and especially by a few distinctive compositions, that Bryant will be most widely and deeply held in remembrance. In themidst of the exacting business of his career as an editor, and manypublic or social demands upon his time, he found opportunity tofamiliarize himself with portions of German and Spanish poetry, which hetranslated, and to maintain in the quietude of his country home inRoslyn, Long Island, his old acquaintance with the Greek and Latinclassics. From this continued study there resulted naturally in 1870 hiselaborate translation of Homer's Iliad, which was followed by that ofthe Odyssey in 1871. These scholarly works, cast in strong and polishedblank verse, won high praise from American critics, and even achieved apopular success, although they were not warmly acclaimed, in England. Among literarians they are still regarded as in a manner standards oftheir kind. Bryant, in his long march of over sixty-five years acrossthe literary field, was witness to many new developments in poeticwriting, in both his own and other countries. But while he perceived thesplendor and color and rich novelty of these, he held in his own work tothe plain theory and practice which had guided him from the start. "Thebest poetry, " he still believed--"that which takes the strongest hold ofthe general mind, not in one age only but in all ages--is that which isalways simple and always luminous. " He did not embody in impassionedforms the sufferings, emotions, or problems of the human kind, but wasdisposed to generalize them, as in 'The Journey of Life, ' the 'Hymn ofthe City, ' and 'The Song of the Sower, ' it is characteristic that two ofthe longer poems, 'Sella' and 'The Little People of the Snow, ' which arenarratives, deal with legends of an individual human life merging itselfwith the inner life of nature, under the form of imaginary beings whodwell in the snow or in water. On the other hand, one of his eulogistsobserves that although some of his contemporaries went much beyond himin fullness of insight and nearness to the great conflicts of the age, "he has certainly not been surpassed, perhaps not been approached, byany writer since Wordsworth, in that majestic repose and thatself-reliant simplicity which characterized the morning stars of song. "In 'Our Country's Call, ' however, one hears the ring of true martialenthusiasm; and there is a deep patriotic fervor in 'O Mother of aMighty Race. ' The noble and sympathetic homage paid to the typicalwomanhood of a genuine woman of every day, in 'The Conqueror's Grave, 'reveals also great underlying warmth and sensitiveness of feeling. 'Robert of Lincoln, ' and 'The Planting of the Apple-Tree' are bothtouched with a lighter mood of joy in nature, which supplies a contrastto his usual pensiveness. 

Bryant's venerable aspect in old age--with erect form, white hair, andflowing snowy beard--gave him a resemblance to Homer; and there wassomething Homeric about his influence upon the literature of hiscountry, in the dignity with which he invested the poetic art and thepoet's relation to the people. 

[Illustration: Signature: George Parsons Lathrop]

[All Bryant's poems were originally published by D. Appleton andCompany. ]

 THANATOPSIS

 To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;-- Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- Comes a still voice:--

 Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings, The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, --the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods--rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, -- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. --Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone. 

 So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men, -- The youth in life's fresh spring and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe and the gray-headed man-- Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

 So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

 THE CROWDED STREET

 Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

 How fast the flitting figures come! The mild, the fierce, the stony face-- Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have lost their trace. 

 They pass to toil, to strife, to rest-- To halls in which the feast is spread-- To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead. 

 And some to happy homes repair, Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak. 

 And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

 Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye! Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die?

 Keen son of trade, with eager brow! Who is now fluttering in thy snare? Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air?

 Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleam again? Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

 Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold dark hours, how slow the light; And some who flaunt amid the throng Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 

 Each where his tasks or pleasures call, They pass, and heed each other not. There is Who heeds, Who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought. 

 These struggling tides of life, that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end. 

 D. Appleton and Company, New York. 

 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen. 

 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south-wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

 THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE

 Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, And yet the monument proclaims it not, Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought The emblems of a fame that never dies, -- Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. A simple name alone, To the great world unknown, Is graven here, and wild-flowers rising round, Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 

 Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart No man of iron mold and bloody hands, Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands The passions that consumed his restless heart: But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, Gentlest, in mien and mind, Of gentle womankind, Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made Its haunts, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. 

 Nor deem that when the hand that molders here Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East-- Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave The victory to her who fills this grave: Alone her task was wrought, Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was staid On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 

 She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look That altered not beneath the frown they wore, And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took Meekly her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain, And rent the nets of passion from her path. By that victorious hand despair was slain. With love she vanquished hate and overcame Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. 

 Her glory is not of this shadowy state, Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But when she entered at the sapphire gate What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! And He who long before, Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; He who returning, glorious, from the grave, Dragged Death disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. 

 See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. O gentle sleeper, from the grave I go, Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. Brief is the time, I know, The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee; The victors' names are yet too few to fill Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory That ministered to thee, is open still. 

 THE-BATTLE-FIELD

 Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

 Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave-- Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they sought to save. 

 Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard. 

 No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry-- Oh, be it never heard again!

 Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life. 

 A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

 Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not. 

 Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born. 

 Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again-- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshipers. 

 Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here!

 Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 

 D. Appleton and Company, New York. 

 TO A WATERFOWL

 Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

 Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean-side?

 There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- The desert and illimitable air-- Lone wandering, but not lost. 

 All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. 

 And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. 

 He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. 

 ROBERT OF LINCOLN

 Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:-- Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. 

 Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest. Hear him call in his merry note:-- Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. 

 Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink: Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. 

 Modest and shy as a nun is she; One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat:-- Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink: Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can! Chee, chee, chee. 

 Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might:-- Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. 

 Soon as the little ones chip the shell, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. 

 Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and our nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. 

 Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:-- Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. Chee, chee, chee. 

 _1855_

 JUNE

 I gazed upon the glorious sky And the green mountains round; And thought that when I came to lie At rest within the ground, 'Twere pleasant that in flowery June, When brooks send up a cheerful tune And groves a joyous sound, The sexton's hand, my grave to make, The rich green mountain turf should break. 

 A cell within the frozen mold, A coffin borne through sleet, And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat-- Away! I will not think of these: Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, Earth green beneath the feet, And be the damp mold gently pressed Into my narrow place of rest. 

 There through the long, long summer hours The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by; The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird. 

 And what if cheerful shouts at noon Come, from the village sent, Or songs of maids beneath the moon, With fairy laughter blent? And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 

 I know that I no more should see The season's glorious show, Nor would its brightness shine for me, Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep. The friends I love should come to weep, They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 

 These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills Is--that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. 

 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN

 Thou blossom, bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night;

 Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

 Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frost and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end. 

 Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. 

 I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart. 

 D. Appleton and Company, New York. 

 THE FUTURE LIFE

 How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread?

 For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

 Will not thy own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, And wilt thou never utter it in heaven?

 In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here?

 The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

 A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 

 For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll; And wrath has left its scar--that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

 Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same?

 Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-- The wisdom which is love--till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss?

 D. Appleton and Company, New York. 

 TO THE PAST

 Thou unrelenting Past! Stern are the fetters round thy dark domain, And fetters, sure and fast, Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

 Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadows of thy womb. 

 Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground, And last, Man's Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

 Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends--the good, the kind-- Yielded to thee with tears-- The venerable form, the exalted mind. 

 My spirit yearns to bring The lost ones back; yearns with desire intense, And struggles hard to wring Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 

 In vain!--Thy gates deny All passage save to those who hence depart. Nor to the streaming eye Thou givest them back, nor to the broken heart. 

 In thy abysses hide Beauty and excellence unknown. To thee Earth's wonder and her pride Are gathered, as the waters to the sea. 

 Labors of good to man, Unpublished charity, unbroken faith; Love, that 'midst grief began, And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 

 Full many a mighty name Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered. With thee are silent Fame, Forgotten Arts, and Wisdom disappeared. 

 Thine for a space are they. Yet thou shalt yield thy treasures up at last; Thy gates shall yet give way, Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

 All that of good and fair Has gone into thy womb from earliest time Shall then come forth, to wear The glory and the beauty of its prime. 

 They have not perished--no! Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, Smiles, radiant long ago, And features, the great soul's apparent seat:

 All shall come back. Each tie Of pure affection shall be knit again: Alone shall Evil die, And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

 And then shall I behold Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung; And her who, still and cold, Fills the next grave--the beautiful and young. 

 D. Appleton and Company, New York. 

JAMES BRYCE

(1838-)

James Bryce was born at Belfast, Ireland, of Scotch and Irish parents. He studied at the University of Glasgow and later at Oxford, where hegraduated with high honors in 1862, and where after some years of legalpractice he was appointed Regius Professor of Civil Law in 1870. He hadalready established a high reputation as an original and accuratehistorical scholar by his prize essay on the 'Holy Roman Empire' (1864), which passed through many editions, was translated into German, French, and Italian, and remains to-day a standard work and the best known workon the subject, Edward A. Freeman said on the appearance of the workthat it had raised the author at once to the rank of a great historian. It has done more than any other treatise to clarify the vague notions ofhistorians as to the significance of the imperial idea in the MiddleAges, and its importance as a factor in German and Italian politics; andit is safe to say that there is scarcely a recent history of the periodthat does not show traces of its influence. The scope of this work beingjuristic and philosophical, it does not admit of much historicalnarrative, and the style is lucid but not brilliant. It is not in factas a historian that Mr. Bryce is best known, but rather as a jurist, apolitician, and a student of institutions. 

[Illustration: JAMES BRYCE]

The most striking characteristic of the man is his versatility; aquality which in his case has not been accompanied by its usual defects, for his achievements in one field seem to have made him no lessconscientious in others, while they have given him that breadth of viewwhich is more essential than any special training to the critic of menand affairs. For the ten years that followed his Oxford appointment hecontributed frequently to the magazines on geographical, social, andpolitical topics. His vacations he spent in travel and in mountainclimbing, of which he gave an interesting narrative in 'Transcaucasiaand Ararat' (1877). In 1880 he entered active politics, and was electedto Parliament in the Liberal interest. He has continued steadfast inhis support of the Liberal party and of Mr. Gladstone, whose Home Rulepolicy he has heartily seconded. In 1886 he became Gladstone'sUnder-Secretary of Foreign Affairs, and in 1894 was appointed Presidentof the Board of Trade. 

The work by which he is best known in this country, the 'AmericanCommonwealth' (1888), is the fruit of his observations during threevisits to the United States, and of many years of study. It is generallyconceded to be the best critical analysis of American institutions evermade by a foreign author. Inferior in point of style to De Tocqueville's'Democracy in America, ' it far surpasses that book in amplitude, breadthof view, acuteness of observation, and minuteness of information;besides being half a century later in date, and therefore able to setdown accomplished facts where the earlier observer could only makeforecasts. His extensive knowledge of foreign countries, by divestinghim of insular prejudice, fitted him to handle his theme withimpartiality, and his experience in the practical workings of Britishinstitutions gave him an insight into the practical defects and benefitsof ours. That he has a keen eye for defects is obvious, but his tone isinvariably sympathetic; so much so, in fact, that Goldwin Smith hasaccused him of being somewhat "hard on England" in some of hiscomparisons. The faults of the book pertain rather to the manner than tothe matter. He does not mislead, but sometimes wearies, and in someportions of the work the frequent repetitions, the massing of details, and the absence of compact statement tend to obscure the general driftof his argument and to add unduly to the bulkiness of his volumes. 

 * * * * *

THE POSITION OF WOMEN IN THE UNITED STATES

From 'The American Commonwealth'

Social intercourse between youths and maidens is everywhere more easyand unrestrained than in England or Germany, not to speak of France. Yetthere are considerable differences between the Eastern cities, whoseusages have begun to approximate to those of Europe, and other parts ofthe country. In the rural districts, and generally all over the West, young men and girls are permitted to walk together, drive together, goout to parties and even to public entertainments together, without thepresence of any third person who can be supposed to be looking after ortaking charge of the girl. So a girl may, if she pleases, keep up acorrespondence with a young man, nor will her parents think ofinterfering. She will have her own friends, who when they call at herhouse ask for her, and are received by her, it may be alone; becausethey are not deemed to be necessarily the friends of her parents also, nor even of her sisters. 

In the cities of the Atlantic States it is now thought scarcely correctfor a young man to take a young lady out for a solitary drive; and infew sets would he be permitted to escort her alone to the theatre. Butgirls still go without chaperons to dances, the hostess being deemed toact as chaperon for all her guests; and as regards both correspondenceand the right to have one's own circle of acquaintances, the usage evenof New York or Boston allows more liberty than does that of London orEdinburgh. It was at one time, and it may possibly still be, notuncommon for a group of young people who know one another well to makeup an autumn "party in the woods. " They choose some mountain and forestregion, such as the Adirondack Wilderness west of Lake Champlain, engagethree or four guides, embark with guns and fishing-rods, tents, blankets, and a stock of groceries, and pass in boats up the rivers andacross the lakes of this wild country through sixty or seventy miles oftrackless forest, to their chosen camping-ground at the foot of sometall rock that rises from the still crystal of the lake. Here they buildtheir bark hut, and spread their beds of the elastic and fragranthemlock boughs; the youths roam about during the day, tracking the deer, the girls read and work and bake the corn-cakes; at night there is amerry gathering round the fire, or a row in the soft moonlight. On theseexpeditions brothers will take their sisters and cousins, who bringperhaps some lady friends with them; the brothers' friends will cometoo; and all will live together in a fraternal way for weeks or months, though no elderly relative or married lady be of the party. 

There can be no doubt that the pleasure of life is sensibly increased bythe greater freedom which transatlantic custom permits; and as theAmericans insist that no bad results have followed, one notes withregret that freedom declines in the places which deem themselves mostcivilized. American girls have been, so far as a stranger can ascertain, less disposed to what are called "fast ways" than girls of thecorresponding classes in England, and exercise in this respect a prettyrigorous censorship over one another. But when two young people findpleasure in one another's company, they can see as much of each other asthey please, can talk and walk together frequently, can show that theyare mutually interested, and yet need have little fear of beingmisunderstood either by one another or by the rest of the world. It isall a matter of custom. In the West, custom sanctions this easyfriendship; in the Atlantic cities, so soon as people have come to findsomething exceptional in it, constraint is felt, and a conventionaletiquette like that of the Old World begins to replace the innocentsimplicity of the older time, the test of whose merit may be gatheredfrom the universal persuasion in America that happy marriages are in themiddle and upper ranks more common than in Europe, and that this is dueto the ampler opportunities which young men and women have of learningone another's characters and habits before becoming betrothed. Mostgirls have a larger range of intimate acquaintances than girls have inEurope, intercourse is franker, there is less difference between themanners of home and the manners of general society. The conclusions of astranger are in such matters of no value; so I can only repeat that Ihave never met any judicious American lady who, however well she knewthe Old World, did not think that the New World customs conduced moreboth to the pleasantness of life before marriage, and to constancy andconcord after it. 

In no country are women, and especially young women, so much made of. The world is at their feet. Society seems organized for the purpose ofproviding enjoyment for them. Parents, uncles, aunts, elderly friends, even brothers, are ready to make their comfort and convenience bend tothe girls' wishes. The wife has fewer opportunities for reigning overthe world of amusements, because except among the richest people she hasmore to do in household management than in England, owing to thescarcity of servants; but she holds in her own house a more prominent ifnot a more substantially powerful position than in England or even inFrance. With the German _haus-frau_, who is too often content to be amere housewife, there is of course no comparison. The best proof of thesuperior place American ladies occupy is to be found in the notions theyprofess to entertain of the relations of an English married pair. Theytalk of the English wife as little better than a slave; declaring thatwhen they stay with English friends, or receive an English couple inAmerica, they see the wife always deferring to the husband and thehusband always assuming that his pleasure and convenience are toprevail. The European wife, they admit, often gets her own way, but shegets it by tactful arts, by flattery or wheedling or playing on theman's weaknesses; whereas in America the husband's duty and desire is togratify the wife, and render to her those services which the Englishtyrant exacts from his consort. One may often hear an American matroncommiserate a friend who has married in Europe, while the daughtersdeclare in chorus that they will never follow the example. Laughable asall this may seem to English women, it is perfectly true that the theoryas well as the practice of conjugal life is not the same in America asin England. There are overbearing husbands in America, but they are morecondemned by the opinion of the neighborhood than in England. There areexacting wives in England, but their husbands are more pitied than wouldbe the case in America. In neither country can one say that theprinciple of perfect equality reigns; for in America the balanceinclines nearly, though not quite, as much in favor of the wife as itdoes in England in favor of the husband. No one man can have asufficiently large acquaintance in both countries to entitle hisindividual opinion on the results to much weight. So far as I have beenable to collect views from those observers who have lived in bothcountries, they are in favor of the American practice, perhaps becausethe theory it is based on departs less from pure equality than does thatof England. These observers do not mean that the recognition of women asequals or superiors makes them any better or sweeter or wiser thanEnglishwomen; but rather that the principle of equality, by correctingthe characteristic faults of men, and especially their selfishness andvanity, is more conducive to the concord and happiness of a home. Theyconceive that to make the wife feel her independence and responsibilitymore strongly than she does in Europe tends to brace and expand hercharacter; while conjugal affection, usually stronger in her than in thehusband, inasmuch as there are fewer competing interests, saves her fromabusing the precedence yielded to her. This seems to be true; but I haveheard others maintain that the American system, since it does notrequire the wife habitually to forego her own wishes, tends, if not tomake her self-indulgent and capricious, yet slightly to impair the moredelicate charms of character; as it is written, "It is more blessed togive than to receive. "

A European cannot spend an evening in an American drawing-room withoutperceiving that the attitude of men to women is not that with which heis familiar at home. The average European man has usually a slight senseof condescension when he talks to a woman on serious subjects. Even ifshe is his superior in intellect, in character, in social rank, hethinks that as a man he is her superior, and consciously orunconsciously talks down to her. She is too much accustomed to this toresent it, unless it becomes tastelessly palpable. Such a notion doesnot cross an American's mind. He talks to a woman just as he would to aman; of course with more deference of manner, and with a proper regardto the topics likely to interest her, but giving her his intellectualbest, addressing her as a person whose opinion is understood by both tobe worth as much as his own. Similarly an American lady does not expectto have conversation made to her: it is just as much her duty orpleasure to lead it as the man's is; and more often than not she takesthe burden from him, darting along with a gay vivacity which puts toshame his slower wits. 

It need hardly be said that in all cases where the two sexes come intocompetition for comfort, the provision is made first for women. Inrailroads the end car of the train, being that farthest removed from thesmoke of the locomotive, is often reserved for them (though menaccompanying a lady are allowed to enter it); and at hotels theirsitting-room is the best and sometimes the only available public room, ladyless guests being driven to the bar or the hall. In omnibuses andhorse-cars (tram-cars), it was formerly the custom for a gentleman torise and offer his seat to a lady if there were no vacant place. This isnow less universally done. In New York and Boston (and I think also inSan Francisco), I have seen the men keep their seats when ladiesentered; and I recollect one occasion when the offer of a seat to a ladywas declined by her, on the ground that as she had chosen to enter afull car she ought to take the consequences. It was (I was told inBoston) a feeling of this kind that had led to the discontinuance of theold courtesy: when ladies constantly pressed into the already crowdedvehicles, the men, who could not secure the enforcement of theregulations against over-crowding, tried to protect themselves byrefusing to rise. It is sometimes said that the privileges yielded toAmerican women have disposed them to claim as a right what was only acourtesy, and have told unfavorably upon their manners. I know ofseveral instances, besides this one of the horse-cars, which might seemto support the criticism, but cannot on the whole think it well founded. The better-bred women do not presume on their sex, and the area of goodbreeding is always widening. It need hardly be said that the communityat large gains by the softening and restraining influence which thereverence for womanhood diffuses. Nothing so quickly incenses the peopleas any insult offered to a woman. Wife-beating, and indeed any kind ofrough violence offered to women, is far less common among the rudestclass than it is in England. Field work or work at the pit-mouth ofmines is seldom or never done by women in America; and the Americantraveler who in some parts of Europe finds women performing severemanual labor, is revolted by the sight in a way which Europeans findsurprising. 

In the farther West, that is to say, beyond the Mississippi, in theRocky Mountain and Pacific States, one is much struck by what seems theabsence of the humblest class of women. The trains are full of poorlydressed and sometimes (though less frequently) rough-mannered men. Onediscovers no women whose dress or air marks them out as the wives, daughters, or sisters of these men, and wonders whether the malepopulation is celibate, and if so, why there are so many women. Closerobservation shows that the wives, daughters, and sisters are there, onlytheir attire and manner are those of what Europeans would callmiddle-class and not working-class people. This is partly due to thefact that Western men affect a rough dress. Still one may say that theremark so often made, that the masses of the American people correspondto the middle class of Europe, is more true of the women than of themen; and is more true of them, in the rural districts and in the Westthan it is of the inhabitants of Atlantic cities. I remember to havebeen dawdling in a book-store in a small town in Oregon when a ladyentered to inquire if a monthly magazine, whose name was unknown to me, had yet arrived. When she was gone I asked the salesman who she was, andwhat was the periodical she wanted. He answered that she was the wife ofa railway workman, that the magazine was a journal of fashions, and thatthe demand for such journals was large and constant among women of thewage-earning class in the town. This set me to observing female dressmore closely; and it turned out to be perfectly true that the women inthese little towns were following the Parisian fashions very closely, and were in fact ahead of the majority of English ladies belonging tothe professional and mercantile classes. Of course in such a town as Irefer to, there are no domestic servants except in the hotels (indeed, almost the only domestic service to be had in the Pacific States wastill very recently that of Chinese), so these votaries of fashion didall their own housework and looked after their own babies. 

Three causes combine to create among American women an average ofliterary taste and influence higher than that of women in any Europeancountry. These are the educational facilities they enjoy, therecognition of the equality of the sexes in the whole social andintellectual sphere, and the leisure which they possess as compared withmen. In a country where men are incessantly occupied at their businessor profession, the function of keeping up the level of culture devolvesupon women. It is safe in their hands. They are quick and keen-witted, less fond of open-air life and physical exertion than English women are, and obliged by the climate to pass a greater part of their time undershelter from the cold of winter and the sun of summer. For music and forthe pictorial arts they do not yet seem to have formed so strong a tasteas for literature; partly perhaps owing to the fact that in America theopportunities of seeing and hearing masterpieces, except indeed operas, are rarer than in Europe. But they are eager and assiduous readers ofall such books and periodicals as do not presuppose special knowledge insome branch of science or learning, while the number who have devotedthemselves to some special study and attained proficiency in it islarge. The fondness for sentiment, especially moral and domesticsentiment, which is often observed as characterizing American taste inliterature, seems to be mainly due to the influence of women, for theyform not only the larger part of the reading public, but anindependent-minded part, not disposed to adopt the canons laid down bymen, and their preferences count for more in the opinions andpredilections of the whole nation than is the case in England. Similarlythe number of women who write is infinitely larger in America than inEurope. Fiction, essays, and poetry are naturally their favoriteprovinces. In poetry more particularly, many whose names are quiteunknown in Europe have attained wide-spread fame. 

Some one may ask how far the differences between the position of womenin America and their position in Europe are due to democracy? or if notto this, then to what other cause?

They are due to democratic feeling, in so far as they spring from thenotion that all men are free and equal, possessed of certain inalienablerights and owing certain corresponding duties. This root idea ofdemocracy cannot stop at defining men as male human beings, any morethan it could ultimately stop at defining them as white human beings. For many years the Americans believed in equality with the pride ofdiscoverers as well as with the fervor of apostles. Accustomed to applyit to all sorts and conditions of men, they were naturally the first toapply it to women also; not indeed as respects politics, but in all thesocial as well as legal relations of life. Democracy is in America morerespectful of the individual, less disposed to infringe his freedom orsubject him to any sort of legal or family control, than it has shownitself in Continental Europe; and this regard for the individual inuredto the benefit of women. Of the other causes that have worked in thesame direction, two may be mentioned. One is the usage of theCongregationalist, Presbyterian, and Baptist churches, under which awoman who is a member of the congregation has the same rights inchoosing a deacon, elder, or pastor, as a man has. Another is the factthat among the westward-moving settlers women were at first few innumber, and were therefore treated with special respect. The habit thenformed was retained as the communities grew, and propagated itself allover the country. 

What have been the results on the character and usefulness of womenthemselves?

Favorable. They have opened to them a wider life and more variety ofcareer. While the special graces of the feminine character do not appearto have suffered, there has been produced a sort of independence and acapacity for self-help which are increasingly valuable as the number ofunmarried women increases. More resources are open to an American womanwho has to lead a solitary life, not merely in the way of employment, but for the occupation of her mind and tastes, than to a Europeanspinster or widow; while her education has not rendered the Americanwife less competent for the discharge of household duties. 

How has the nation at large been affected by the development of this newtype of womanhood, or rather perhaps of this variation on theEnglish type?

If women have on the whole gained, it is clear that the nation gainsthrough them. As mothers they mold the character of their children;while the function of forming the habits of society and determining itsmoral tone rests greatly in their hands. But there is reason to thinkthat the influence of the American system tells directly for good uponmen as well as upon the whole community. Men gain in being brought totreat women as equals, rather than as graceful playthings or usefuldrudges. The respect for women which every American man either feels, oris obliged by public sentiment to profess, has a wholesome effect on hisconduct and character, and serves to check the cynicism which some otherpeculiarities of the country foster. The nation as a whole owes to theactive benevolence of its women, and their zeal in promoting socialreforms, benefits which the customs of Continental Europe would scarcelyhave permitted women to confer. Europeans have of late years begun torender a well-deserved admiration to the brightness and vivacity ofAmerican ladies. Those who know the work they have done and are doing inmany a noble cause will admire still more their energy, their courage, their self-devotion. No country seems to owe more to its women thanAmerica does, nor to owe to them so much of what is best in socialinstitutions and in the beliefs that govern conduct. 

By permission of James Bryce and the Macmillan Company. 

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THE ASCENT OF ARARAT

From 'Trans-Caucasia and Ararat'

About 1 A. M. We got off, thirteen in all, and made straight across thegrassy hollows for the ridges which trend up towards the great cone, running parallel in a west-north-westerly direction, and inclosingbetween them several long narrow depressions, hardly deep enough to becalled valleys. The Kurds led the way, and at first we made pretty goodprogress. The Cossacks seemed fair walkers, though less stalwart thanthe Kurds; the pace generally was better than that with which Swissguides start. However, we were soon cruelly undeceived. In twenty-fiveminutes there came a steep bit, and at the top of it they flungthemselves down on the grass to rest. So did we all. Less than half amile farther, down they dropped again, and this time we were obliged togive the signal for resuming the march. In another quarter of an hourthey were down once more, and so it continued for the rest of the way. Every ten minutes' walking--it was seldom steep enough to be calledactual climbing--was followed by seven or eight minutes of sittingstill, smoking and chattering. How they did chatter! It was to nopurpose that we continued to move on when they sat down, or that we roseto go before they had sufficiently rested. They looked at one another, so far as I could make out by the faint light, and occasionally theylaughed; but they would not and did not stir till such time as pleasedthemselves. We were helpless. Impossible to go on alone; impossible alsoto explain to them why every moment was precious, for the acquaintancewho had acted as interpreter had been obliged to stay behind atSardarbulakh, and we were absolutely without means of communication withour companions. One could not even be angry, had there been any use inthat, for they were perfectly good-humored. It was all very well tobeckon them, or pull them by the elbow, or clap them on the back; theythought this was only our fun, and sat still and chattered all the same. When it grew light enough to see the hands of a watch, and mark how thehours advanced while the party did not, we began for a second time todespair of success. 

About 3 A. M. There suddenly sprang up from behind the Median mountainsthe morning star, shedding a light such as no star ever gave in thesenorthern climes of ours, --a light that almost outshone the moon. An hourlater it began to pale in the first faint flush of yellowish light thatspread over the eastern heaven; and first the rocky masses above us, then Little Ararat, throwing behind him a gigantic shadow, then the longlines of mountains beyond the Araxes, became revealed, while the wideAraxes plain still lay dim and shadowy below. One by one the stars diedout as the yellow turned to a deeper glow that shot forth in longstreamers, the rosy fingers of the dawn, from the horizon to the zenith. Cold and ghostly lay the snows on the mighty cone; till at last therecame upon their topmost slope, six thousand feet above us, a suddenblush of pink. Swiftly it floated down the eastern face, and touched andkindled the rocks just above us. Then the sun flamed out, and in amoment the Araxes valley and all the hollows of the savage ridges wewere crossing were flooded with overpowering light. 

It was nearly six o'clock, and progress became easier now that we couldsee our way distinctly. The Cossacks seemed to grow lazier, halting asoften as before and walking less briskly; in fact, they did not relishthe exceeding roughness of the jagged lava ridges along whose tops orsides we toiled. I could willingly have lingered here myself; for in thehollows, wherever a little soil appeared, some interesting plants weregrowing, whose similarity to and difference from the Alpine species ofWestern Europe alike excited one's curiosity. Time allowed me to secureonly a few; I trusted to get more on the way back, but this turned outto be impossible. As we scrambled along a ridge above a long narrowwinding glen filled with loose blocks, one of the Kurds suddenly swoopeddown like a vulture from the height on a spot at the bottom, and beganpeering and grubbing among the stones. In a minute or two he cried out, and the rest followed; he had found a spring, and by scraping in thegravel had made a tiny basin out of which we could manage to drink alittle. Here was a fresh cause of delay: everybody was thirsty, andeverybody must drink; not only the water which, as we afterwards saw, trickled down hither under the stones from a snow-bed seven hundred feethigher, but the water mixed with some whisky from a flask my friendcarried, which even in this highly diluted state the Cossacks took toheartily. When at last we got them up and away again, they began towaddle and strangle; after a while two or three sat down, and plainlygave us to see they would go no farther. By the time we had reached alittle snow-bed whence the now strong sun was drawing a stream of water, and halted on the rocks beside it for breakfast, there were only twoCossacks and the four Kurds left with us, the rest having scatteredthemselves about somewhere lower down. We had no idea what instructionsthey had received, nor whether indeed they had been told anything exceptto bring us as far as they could, to see that the Kurds brought thebaggage, and to fetch us back again, which last was essential forJaafar's peace of mind. We concluded therefore that if left tothemselves they would probably wait our return; and the day was runningon so fast that it was clear there was no more time to be lost in tryingto drag them along with us. 

Accordingly I resolved to take what I wanted in the way of food, andstart at my own pace. My friend, who carried more weight, and had feltthe want of training on our way up, decided to come no farther, but waitabout here, and look out for me towards nightfall. We noted thelandmarks carefully, --the little snow-bed, the head of the glen coveredwith reddish masses of stone and gravel; and high above it, standing outof the face of the great cone of Ararat, a bold peak or ratherprojecting tooth of black rock, which our Cossacks called the Monastery, and which, I suppose from the same fancied resemblance to a building, issaid to be called in Tatar Tach Kilissa, "the church rock. " It isdoubtless an old cone of eruption, about thirteen thousand feet inheight, and is really the upper end of the long ridge we had beenfollowing, which may perhaps represent a lava flow from it, or the edgeof a fissure which at this point found a vent. 

It was an odd position to be in: guides of two different races, unableto communicate either with us or with one another: guides who could notlead and would not follow; guides one-half of whom were supposed to bethere to save us from being robbed and murdered by the other half, butall of whom, I am bound to say, looked for the moment equally simple andfriendly, the swarthy Iranian as well as the blue-eyed Slav. 

At eight o'clock I buckled on my canvas gaiters, thrust some crusts ofbread, a lemon, a small flask of cold tea, four hard-boiled eggs, and afew meat lozenges into my pocket, bade good-by to my friend, and setoff. Rather to our surprise, the two Cossacks and one of the Kurds camewith me, whether persuaded by a pantomime of encouraging signs, orsimply curious to see what would happen. The ice-axe had hugely amusedthe Cossacks all through. Climbing the ridge to the left, and keepingalong its top for a little way, I then struck across the semi-circularhead of a wide glen, in the middle of which, a little lower, lay asnow-bed over a long steep slope of loose broken stones and sand. Thisslope, a sort of talus or "screen" as they say in the Lake country, wasexcessively fatiguing from the want of firm foothold; and when I reachedthe other side, I was already so tired and breathless, having been onfoot since midnight, that it seemed almost useless to persevere farther. However, on the other side I got upon solid rock, where the walking wasbetter, and was soon environed by a multitude of rills bubbling downover the stones from the stone-slopes above. The summit of LittleArarat, which had for the last two hours provokingly kept at the sameapparent height above me, began to sink, and before ten o'clock I couldlook down upon its small flat top, studded with lumps of rock, butbearing no trace of a crater. Mounting steadily along the same ridge, Isaw at a height of over thirteen thousand feet, lying on the looseblocks, a piece of wood about four feet long and five inches thick, evidently cut by some tool, and so far above the limit of trees that itcould by no possibility be a natural fragment of one. Darting on it witha glee that astonished the Cossack and the Kurd, I held it up to them, and repeated several times the word "Noah. " The Cossack grinned; but hewas such a cheery, genial fellow that I think he would have grinnedwhatever I had said, and I cannot be sure that he took my meaning, andrecognized the wood as a fragment of the true Ark. Whether it was reallygopher wood, of which material the Ark was built, I will not undertaketo say, but am willing to submit to the inspection of the curious thebit which I cut off with my ice-axe and brought away. Anyhow, it will behard to prove that it is not gopher wood. And if there be any remains ofthe Ark on Ararat at all, --a point as to which the natives are perfectlyclear, --here rather than the top is the place where one might expect tofind them, since in the course of ages they would get carried down bythe onward movement of the snow-beds along the declivities. This wood, therefore, suits all the requirements of the case. In fact, the argumentis for the case of a relic exceptionally strong: the Crusaders who foundthe Holy Lance at Antioch, the archbishop who recognized the Holy Coatat Treves, not to speak of many others, proceeded upon slighterevidence. I am, however, bound to admit that another explanation of thepresence of this piece of timber on the rocks of this vast height didoccur to me. But as no man is bound to discredit his own relic, and suchis certainly not the practice of the Armenian Church, I will not disturbmy readers' minds or yield to the rationalizing tendencies of the age bysuggesting it. 

Fearing that the ridge by which we were mounting would become tooprecipitous higher up, I turned off to the left, and crossed a long, narrow snow-slope that descended between this ridge and another line ofrocks more to the west. It was firm, and just steep enough to make stepscut in the snow comfortable, though not necessary; so the ice-axe wasbrought into use. The Cossack who accompanied me--there was but one now, for the other Cossack had gone away to the right some time before, andwas quite lost to view--had brought my friend's alpenstock, and wasdeveloping a considerable capacity for wielding it. He followed nimblyacross; but the Kurd stopped on the edge of the snow, and stood peeringand hesitating, like one who shivers on the plank at a bathing-place, nor could the jeering cries of the Cossack induce him to venture on thetreacherous surface. Meanwhile, we who had crossed were examining thebroken cliff which rose above us. It looked not exactly dangerous, but alittle troublesome, as if it might want some care to get over orthrough. So after a short rest I stood up, touched my Cossack's arm, andpointed upward. He reconnoitred the cliff with his eye, and shook hishead. Then, with various gestures of hopefulness, I clapped him on theback, and made as though to pull him along. He looked at the rocks againand pointed, to them, stroked his knees, turned up and pointed to thesoles of his boots, which certainly were suffering from the lava, andonce more solemnly shook his head. This was conclusive: so I conveyed tohim my pantomime that he had better go back to the bivouac where myfriend was, rather than remain here alone, and that I hoped to meet himthere in the evening; took an affectionate farewell, and turned towardsthe rocks. There was evidently nothing for it but to go on alone. It washalf-past ten o'clock, and the height about thirteen thousand sixhundred feet, Little Ararat now lying nearly one thousand feet belowthe eye. 

 * * * * *

Not knowing how far the ridge I was following might continue passable, Iwas obliged to stop frequently to survey the rocks above, and erectlittle piles of stone to mark the way. This not only consumed time, butso completely absorbed the attention that for hours together I scarcelynoticed the marvelous landscape spread out beneath, and felt the solemngrandeur of the scenery far less than many times before on less strikingmountains. Solitude at great heights, or among majestic rocks orforests, commonly stirs in us all deep veins of feeling, joyous orsaddening, or more often of joy and sadness mingled. Here the strain onthe observing senses seemed too great for fancy or emotion to have anyscope. When the mind is preocupied by the task of the moment, imagination is checked. This was a race against time, in which I couldonly scan the cliffs for a route, refer constantly to the watch, husbandmy strength by morsels of food taken at frequent intervals, and endeavorto conceive how a particular block or bit of slope which it would benecessary to recognize would look when seen the other way indescending. .. . 

All the way up this rock-slope, which proved so fatiguing that for thefourth time I had almost given up hope, I kept my eye fixed on its upperend to see what signs there were of crags or snow-fields above. But themist lay steadily at the point where the snow seemed to begin, and itwas impossible to say what might be hidden behind that soft whitecurtain. As little could I conjecture the height I had reached bylooking around, as one so often does on mountain ascents, upon othersummits; for by this time I was thousands of feet above Little Ararat, the next highest peak visible, and could scarcely guess how manythousands. From this tremendous height it looked more like a brokenobelisk than an independent summit twelve thousand eight hundred feet inheight. Clouds covered the farther side of the great snow basin, andwere seething like waves about the savage pinnacles, the towers of theJinn palace, which guard its lower margin, and past which my upward pathhad lain. With mists to the left and above, and a range of blackprecipices cutting off all view to the right, there came a vehementsense of isolation and solitude, and I began to understand better theawe with which the mountain silence inspires the Kurdish shepherds. Overhead the sky had turned from dark blue to an intense bright green, acolor whose strangeness seemed to add to the weird terror of the scene. It wanted barely an hour to the time when I had resolved to turn back;and as I struggled up the crumbling rocks, trying now to right and nowto left, where the foothold looked a little firmer, I began to doubtwhether there was strength enough left to carry me an hour higher. Atlength the rock-slope came suddenly to an end, and I stepped out uponthe almost level snow at the top of it, coming at the same time into theclouds, which naturally clung to the colder surfaces. A violent westwind was blowing, and the temperature must have been pretty low, for abig icicle at once enveloped the lower half of my face, and did not melttill I got to the bottom of the cone four hours afterwards. Unluckily Iwas very thinly clad, the stout tweed coat reserved for such occasionshaving been stolen on a Russian railway. The only expedient to be triedagainst the piercing cold was to tighten in my loose light coat bywinding around the waist a Spanish _faja_, or scarf, which I had broughtup to use in case of need as a neck wrapper. Its bright purple lookedodd enough in such surroundings, but as there was nobody there tonotice, appearances did not much matter. In the mist, which was nowthick, the eye could pierce only some thirty yards ahead; so I walked onover the snow five or six minutes, following the rise of its surface, which was gentle, and fancying there might still be a good long way togo. To mark the backward track I trailed the point of the ice-axe alongbehind me in the soft snow, for there was no longer any landmark; allwas cloud on every side. Suddenly to my astonishment the ground began tofall away to the north; I stopped; a puff of wind drove off the mists onone side, the opposite side to that by which I had come, and showed theAraxes plain at an abysmal depth below. It was the top of Ararat. 

THE WORK OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE

From 'The Holy Roman Empire'

No one who reads the history of the last three hundred years--no one, above all, who studies attentively the career of Napoleon--can believeit possible for any State, however great her energy and materialresources, to repeat in modern Europe the part of ancient Rome; togather into one vast political body races whose national individualityhas grown more and more marked in each successive age. Nevertheless, itis in great measure due to Rome and to the Roman Empire of the MiddleAges that the bonds of national union are on the whole both stronger andnobler than they were ever before. The latest historian of Rome[Mommsen], after summing up the results to the world of his hero'scareer, closes his treatise with these words:

 "There was in the world as Cæsar found it the rich and noble heritage of past centuries, and an endless abundance of splendor and glory; but little soul, still less taste, and least of all, joy in and through life. Truly it was an old world, and even Cæsar's genial patriotism could not make it young again. The blush of dawn returns not until the night has fully descended. Yet with him there came to the much-tormented races of the Mediterranean a tranquil evening after a sultry day; and when after long historical night the new day broke once more upon the peoples, and fresh nations in free self-guided movement began their course toward new and higher aims, many were found among them in whom the seed of Cæsar had sprung up, --many who owed him, and who owe him still, their national individuality. "

If this be the glory of Julius, the first great founder of the Empire, so is it also the glory of Charles, the second founder, and of more thanone among his Teutonic successors. The work of the mediæval Empire wasself-destructive; and it fostered, while seeming to oppose, thenationalities that were destined to replace it. It tamed the barbarousraces of the North and forced them within the pale of civilization. Itpreserved the arts and literature of antiquity. In times of violence andoppression, it set before its subjects the duty of rational obedience toan authority whose watchwords were peace and religion. It kept alive, when national hatreds were most bitter, the notion of a great EuropeanCommonwealth. And by doing all this, it was in effect abolishing theneed for a centralizing and despotic power like itself; it was makingmen capable of using national independence aright; it was teaching themto rise to that conception of spontaneous activity, and a freedom whichis above law but not against it, to which national independence itself, if it is to be a blessing at all, must be only a means. Those who markwhat has been the tendency of events since A. D. 1789, and who rememberhow many of the crimes and calamities of the past are still but halfredressed, need not be surprised to see the so-called principle ofnationalities advocated with honest devotion as the final and perfectform of political development. But such undistinguishing advocacy isafter all only the old error in a new shape. If all other history didnot bid us beware the habit of taking the problems and the conditions ofour own age for those of all time, the warning which the Empire givesmight alone be warning enough. From the days of Augustus down to thoseof Charles V. , the whole civilized world believed in its existence as apart of the eternal fitness of things, and Christian theologians werenot behind heathen poets in declaring that when it perished the worldwould perish with it. Yet the Empire is gone, and the world remains, andhardly notes the change. 

FRANCIS TREVELYAN BUCKLAND

(1826-1880)

Certainly, among the most useful of writers are the popularizers ofscience; those who can describe in readable, picturesque fashion thosewonders and innumerable inhabitants of the world which the Dryasdustsdiscover, but which are apt to escape the attention of idlers or of thebusy workers in other fields. Sometimes--not often--the same man unitesthe capacities of a patient and accurate investigator and of anaccomplished narrator. To such men the field of enjoyment is boundless, as is the opportunity to promote the enjoyment of others. 

One of these two-sided men was Francis Trevelyan Buckland, popularlyknown as "Frank" Buckland, and so called in some of his books. Hisfather, William Buckland, --at the time of the son's birth canon ofChrist College, Oxford, and subsequently Dean of Westminster, --was thewell-known geologist. As the father's life was devoted to the study ofthe inorganic, so that of the son was absorbed in the investigation ofthe organic world. He never tired of watching the habits of livingcreatures of all kinds; he lived as it were in a menagerie and it isrelated that his numerous callers were accustomed to the most familiarand impertinent demonstrations on the part of his monkeys and variousother pets. He was an expert salmon-fisher, and his actual specialty wasfishes; but he could not have these about him so conveniently as someother forms of life, and he extended his studies and specimens widelybeyond ichthyology. 

Buckland was born December 17th, 1826, and died December 19th, 1880. Brought up in a scientific atmosphere, he was all his life interested inthe same subjects. Educated as a physician and surgeon and distinguishedfor his anatomical skill, his training fitted him for the carefulinvestigation which is necessary on the part of the biologist. He wasfortunate too in receiving in early middle life the governmentappointment of Inspector of Salmon Fisheries, and so being enabled todevote himself wholly to his favorite pursuits. In this position he wasunwearied in his efforts to develop pisciculture, and to improve theapparatus used by the fishermen, interesting himself also in thecondition of themselves and their families. 

He was always writing. He was a very frequent contributor to The Fieldfrom its foundation in 1856, and subsequently to Land and Water, aperiodical which he started in 1866, and to other periodicals. Hepublished a number of volumes, made up in great part from hiscontributions to periodicals, most of them of a popular character andfull of interesting information. Among those which are best known arethe 'Curiosities of Natural History' (1857-72); the 'Log-Book of aFisherman and Geologist' (1875); a 'Natural History of British Fishes'(1881); and 'Notes and Jottings from Animal Life, ' which was not issueduntil 1882, though the material was selected by himself. 

Buckland was of a jovial disposition, and always sure to see thehumorous side of the facts which were presented to him; and in hissocial life he was extremely unconventional, and inclined to merrypranks. His books are as delightful as was their writer. They arerecords of accurate, useful, eye-opening details as to fauna, all theworld over. They are written with a brisk, sincere informality thatsuggest the lively talker rather than the writer. He takes us a-walkingin green lanes and woods, and a-wading in brooks and still pools--notdrawing us into a class-room or a study. He enters into the heart andlife of creatures, and shows us how we should do the same. A livelyhumor is in all his popular pages. He instructs while smiling; and he isa savant while a light-hearted friend. Few English naturalists are asgenial--not even White of Selborne--and few as wide in didactics. Toknow him is a profit indeed; but just as surely a pleasure. 

A HUNT IN A HORSE-POND

From 'Curiosities of Natural History'

Well, let us have a look at the pond-world; choose a dry place at theside, and fix our eyes steadily upon the dirty water: what shall we see?Nothing at first; but wait a minute or two: a little round black knobappears in the middle; gradually it rises higher and higher, till atlast you can make out a frog's head, with his great eyes staring hard atyou, like the eyes of the frog in the woodcut facing Æsop's fable of thefrog and the bull. Not a bit of his body do you see: he is much toocunning for that; he does not know who or what you are; you may be aheron, his mortal enemy, for aught he knows. You move your arm: hethinks it is the heron's bill coming; down he goes again, and you seehim not: a few seconds, he regains courage and reappears, havingprobably communicated the intelligence to the other frogs; for many bigheads and many big eyes appear, in all parts of the pond, looking likeso many hippopotami on a small scale. Soon a conversational "Wurk; wurk, wurk, " begins: you don't understand it; luckily, perhaps, as from theswelling in their throats it is evident that the colony is outraged bythe intrusion, and the remarks passing are not complimentary to theintruder. These frogs are all respectable, grown-up, well-to-do frogs, and they have in this pond duly deposited their spawn, and then, hard-hearted creatures! left it to its fate; it has, however, taken careof itself, and is now hatched, at least that part of it which hasescaped the hands of the gipsies, who not unfrequently prescribe bathsof this natural jelly for rheumatism. .. . 

In some places, from their making this peculiar noise, frogs have beencalled "Dutch nightingales. " In Scotland, too, they have a curious name, Paddock or Puddick; but there is poetical authority for it:--

 "The water-snake whom fish and paddocks feed, With staring scales lies poisoned. "--DRYDEN. 

Returning from the University of Giessen, I brought with me about adozen green tree-frogs, which I had caught in the woods near the town. The Germans call them _laub-frosch, _ or leaf-frog; they are mostdifficult things to find, on account of their color so much resemblingthe leaves on which they live. I have frequently heard one singing in asmall bush, and though I have searched carefully, have not been able tofind him: the only way is to remain quite quiet till he again begins hissong. After much ambush-work, at length I collected a dozen frogs andput them in a bottle. I started at night on my homeward journey by thediligence, and I put the bottle containing the frogs into the pocketinside the diligence. My fellow-passengers were sleepy old smoke-driedGermans: very little conversation took place, and after the first mileevery one settled himself to sleep, and soon all were snoring. Isuddenly awoke with a start, and found all the sleepers had been rousedat the same moment. On their sleepy faces were depicted fear and anger. What had woke us all up so suddenly? The morning was just breaking, andmy frogs, though in the dark pocket of the coach, had found it out; andwith one accord, all twelve of them had begun their morning song. As ifat a given signal, they one and all of them began to croak as loud asever they could. The noise their united concert made, seemed, in theclosed compartment of the coach, quite deafening. Well might the Germanslook angry: they wanted to throw the frogs, bottle and all, out of thewindow; but I gave the bottle a good shaking, and made the frogs keepquiet. The Germans all went to sleep again, but I was obliged to remainawake, to shake the frogs when they began to croak. It was lucky that Idid so, for they tried to begin their concert again two or three times. These frogs came safely to Oxford; and the day after their arrival, astupid housemaid took off the top of the bottle to see what was inside;one of the frogs croaked at that instant, and so frightened her that shedared not put the cover on again. They all got loose in the garden, where I believe the ducks ate them, for I never heard or saw them again. 

ON RATS

From 'Curiosities of Natural History'

On one occasion, when a boy, I recollect secretly borrowing anold-fashioned flint gun from the bird-keeper of the farm to which I hadbeen invited. I ensconced myself behind the door of the pig-sty, determined to make a victim of one of the many rats that were accustomedto disport themselves among the straw that formed the bed of thefarmer's pet bacon-pigs. In a few minutes out came an oldpatriarchal-looking rat, who, having taken a careful survey, quietlybegan to feed. After a long aim, bang went the gun--I fell backwards, knocked down by the recoil of the rusty old piece of artillery. I didnot remain prone long, for I was soon roused by the most unearthlysqueaks, and a dreadful noise as of an infuriated animal madly rushinground and round the sty. Ye gods! what had I done? I had not surely, like the tailor in the old song of the 'Carrion Crow, '

 "Shot and missed my mark, And shot the old sow right bang through the heart. "

But I had nearly performed a similar sportsman-like feat. There was poorpiggy, the blood flowing in streamlets from several small punctures inthat part of his body destined, at no very distant period, to becomeham; in vain attempting, by dismal cries and by energetic waggings ofhis curly tail, to appease the pain of the charge of small shot whichhad so unceremoniously awaked him from his porcine dreams of oatmealand boiled potatoes. But where was the rat? He had disappeared unhurt;the buttocks of the unfortunate pig, the rightful owner of the premises, had received the charge of shot intended to destroy the daring intruder. 

To appease piggy's wrath I gave him a bucketful of food from thehog-tub; and while he was thus consoling his inward self, wiped off theblood from the wounded parts, and said nothing about it to anybody. Nodoubt, before this time, some frugal housewife has been puzzled andastonished at the unwonted appearance of a charge of small shot in thecentre of the breakfast ham which she procured from Squire Morland, ofSheepstead, Berks. 

Rats are very fond of warmth, and will remain coiled up for hours in anysnug retreat where they can find this very necessary element of theirexistence. The following anecdote well illustrates this point:--

My late father, when fellow of Corpus College, Oxford, many years ago, on arriving at his rooms late one night, found that a rat was runningabout among the books and geological specimens, behind the sofa, underthe fender, and poking his nose into every hiding-place he could find. Being studiously inclined, and wishing to set to work at his books, hepursued him, armed with the poker in one hand, and a large dictionary, big enough to crush any rat, in the other; but in vain; Mr. Rat was notto be caught, particularly when such "arma scholastica" were used. 

No sooner had the studies recommenced than the rat resumed his gambols, squeaking and rushing about the room like a mad creature. The battle wasrenewed, and continued at intervals, to the destruction of all studies, till quite a late hour at night, when the pursuer, angry and wearied, retired to his adjoining bedroom; though he listened attentively heheard no more of the enemy, and soon fell asleep. In the morning he wasastonished to find something warm lying on his chest; carefully liftingup the bed-clothes, he discovered his tormentor of the preceding nightquietly and snugly ensconced in a fold in the blanket, and takingadvantage of the bodily warmth of his two-legged adversary. These twolay looking daggers at each other for some minutes, the one unwilling toleave his warm berth, the other afraid to put his hand out from underthe protection of the coverlid, particularly as the stranger's aspectwas anything but friendly, his little sharp teeth and fierce littleblack eyes seeming to say, "Paws off from me, if you please!"

At length, remembering the maxim that "discretion is the better part ofvalor"--the truth of which, I imagine, rats understand as well as mostcreatures, --he made a sudden jump off the bed, scuttled away into thenext room, and was never seen or heard of afterwards. .. . 

Rats are not selfish animals: having found out where the feast isstored, they will kindly communicate the intelligence to their friendsand neighbors. The following anecdote will confirm this fact. A certainworthy old lady named Mrs. Oke, who resided at Axminster several yearsago, made a cask of sweet wine, for which she was celebrated, andcarefully placed it on a shelf in the cellar. The second night afterthis event she was frightened almost to death by a strange unaccountablenoise in the said cellar. The household was called up and a search made, but nothing was found to clear up the mystery. The next night, as soonas the lights were extinguished and the house quiet, this dreadful noisewas heard again. This time it was most alarming: a sound of squeaking, crying, knocking, pattering feet; then a dull scratching sound, withmany other such ghostly noises, which continued throughout the livelongnight. The old lady lay in bed with the candle alight, pale andsleepless with fright, anon muttering her prayers, anon determined tofire off the rusty old blunderbuss that hung over the chimneypiece. Atlast the morning broke, and the cock began to crow. "Now, " thought she, "the ghosts must disappear. " To her infinite relief, the noise reallydid cease, and the poor frightened dame adjusted her nightcap and fellasleep. Great preparations had she made for the next night; farmservants armed with pitchforks slept in the house; the maids took thefamily dinner-bell and the tinder-box into their rooms; the big dog wastied to the hall-table. Then the dame retired to her room, not to sleep, but to sit up in the arm-chair by the fire, keeping a drowsy guard overthe neighbor's loaded horse-pistols, of which she was almost as muchafraid as she was of the ghost in the cellar. Sure enough, her warlikepreparations had succeeded; the ghost was certainly frightened; not anoise, not a sound, except the heavy snoring of the bumpkins and therattling of the dog's chain in the hall, could be heard. She had gaineda complete victory; the ghost was never heard again on the premises, andthe whole affair was soon forgotten. Some weeks afterward some friendsdropped in to take a cup of tea and talk over the last piece of gossip. Among other things the wine was mentioned, and the maid sent to get somefrom the cellar. She soon returned, and gasping for breath, rushed intothe room, exclaiming, "'Tis all gone, ma'am;" and sure enough it was allgone. "The ghost has taken it"--not a drop was left, only the empty caskremained; the side was half eaten away, and marks of sharp teeth werevisible round the ragged margins of the newly made bungholes. 

This discovery fully accounted for the noise the ghost had made, whichcaused so much alarm. The aboriginal rats in the dame's cellar had foundout the wine, and communicated the joyful news to all the other rats inthe parish; they had assembled there to enjoy the fun, and get verytipsy (which, judging from the noise they made, they certainly did) onthis treasured cask of wine. Being quite a family party, they hadfinished it in two nights; and having got all they could, like wise ratsthey returned to their respective homes, perfectly unconscious thattheir merry-making had nearly been the death of the rightful owner and"founder of the feast. " They had first gnawed out the cork, and got asmuch as they could: they soon found that the more they drank the lowerthe wine became. Perseverance is the motto of the rat; so they set towork and ate away the wood to the level of the wine again. This theycontinued till they had emptied the cask; they must then have got intoit and licked up the last drains, for another and less agreeable smellwas substituted for that of wine. I may add that this cask, with theside gone, and the marks of the rats' teeth, is still in my possession. 

SNAKES AND THEIR POISON

From 'Curiosities of Natural History'

Be it known to any person to whose lot it should fall to rescue a personfrom the crushing folds of a boa-constrictor, that it is no use pullingand hauling at the centre of the brute's body; catch hold of the tip ofhis tail, --he can then be easily unwound, --he cannot help himself;--he"must" come off. Again, if you wish to kill a snake, it is no usehitting and trying to crush his head. The bones of the head arecomposed of the densest material, affording effectual protection to thebrain underneath: a wise provision for the animal's preservation; forwere his skull brittle, his habit of crawling on the ground would renderit very liable to be fractured. The spinal cord runs down the entirelength of the body; this being wounded, the animal is disabled or killedinstanter. Strike therefore his tail, and not his head; for at his tailthe spinal cord is but thinly covered with bone, and suffers readilyfrom injury. This practice is applicable to eels. If you want to kill aneel, it is not much use belaboring his head: strike, however, his tailtwo or three times against any hard substance, and he is quickly dead. 

About four years ago I myself, in person, had painful experience of theawful effects of snake's poison. I have received a dose of the cobra'spoison into my system; luckily a minute dose, or I should not havesurvived it. The accident happened in a very curious way. I was poisonedby the snake but not bitten by him. I got the poison second-hand. Anxious to witness the effects of the poison of the cobra upon a rat, Itook up a couple in a bag alive to a certain cobra. I took one rat outof the bag and put him into the cage with the snake. The cobra wascoiled up among the stones in the centre of the cage, apparently asleep. When he heard the noise of the rat falling into the cage, he just lookedup and put out his tongue, hissing at the same time. The rat got in acorner and began washing himself, keeping one eye on the snake, whoseappearance he evidently did not half like. Presently the rat ran acrossthe snake's body, and in an instant the latter assumed his fightingattitude. As the rat passed the snake, he made a dart, but missing hisaim, hit his nose a pretty hard blow against the side of the cage. Thisaccident seemed to anger him, for he spread out his crest and waved itto and fro in the beautiful manner peculiar to his kind. The rat becamealarmed and ran near him again. Again cobra made a dart, and bit him, but did not, I think, inject any poison into him, the rat being so veryactive; at least, no symptoms of poisoning were shown. The bitenevertheless aroused the ire of the rat, for he gathered himself for aspring, and measuring his distance, sprang right on to the neck of thecobra, who was waving about in front of him. This plucky rat, determinedto die hard, gave the cobra two or three severe bites in the neck, thesnake keeping his body erect all this time, and endeavoring to turn hishead round so as to bite the rat who was clinging on like the old man in'Sindbad the Sailor. ' Soon, however, cobra changed his tactics. Tired, possibly, with sustaining the weight of the rat, he lowered his head, and the rat, finding himself again on terra firma, tried to run away:not so; for the snake, collecting all his force, brought down hiserected poison-fangs, making his head tell by its weight in giving vigorto the blow, right on to the body of the rat. 

This poor beast now seemed to know that the fight was over and that hewas conquered. He retired to a corner of the cage and began pantingviolently, endeavoring at the same time to steady his failing strengthwith his feet. His eyes were widely dilated, and his mouth open as ifgasping for breath. The cobra stood erect over him, hissing and puttingout his tongue as if conscious of victory. In about three minutes therat fell quietly on his side and expired; the cobra then moved off andtook no further notice of his defunct enemy. About ten minutes afterwardthe rat was hooked out of the cage for me to examine. No external woundcould I see anywhere, so I took out my knife and began taking the skinoff the rat. I soon discovered two very minute punctures, like smallneedle-holes, in the side of the rat, where the fangs of the snake hadentered. The parts between the skin and the flesh, and the flesh itself, appeared as though affected with mortification, even though the woundhad not been inflicted above a quarter of an hour, if so much. 

Anxious to see if the skin itself was affected, I scraped away the partson it with my finger-nail. Finding nothing but the punctures, I threwthe rat away and put the knife and skin in my pocket, and started to goaway. I had not walked a hundred yards before all of a sudden I feltjust as if somebody had come behind me and struck me a severe blow onthe head and neck, and at the same time I experienced a most acute painand sense of oppression at the chest, as though a hot iron had been runin and a hundred-weight put on the top of it. I knew instantly, fromwhat I had read, that I was poisoned; I said as much to my friend, amost intelligent gentleman, who happened to be with me, and told him ifI fell to give me brandy and "eau de luce, " words which he keptrepeating in case he might forget them. At the same time I enjoined himto keep me going, and not on any account to allow me to lie down. 

I then forgot everything for several minutes, and my friend tells me Irolled about as if very faint and weak. He also informs me that thefirst thing I did was to fall against him, asking if I looked seedy. Hemost wisely answered, "No, you look very well. " I don't think he thoughtso, for his own face was as white as a ghost; I recollect this much. Hetells me my face was of a greenish-yellow color. After walking or ratherstaggering along for some minutes, I gradually recovered my senses andsteered for the nearest chemist's shop. Rushing in, I asked for eau deluce. Of course he had none, but my eye caught the words "Spirit, ammon. Co. , " or hartshorn, on a bottle. I reached it down myself, and pouring alarge quantity into a tumbler with a little water, both of whicharticles I found on a soda-water stand in the shop, drank it off, thoughit burnt my mouth and lips very much. Instantly I felt relief from thepain at the chest and head. The chemist stood aghast, and on my tellinghim what was the matter, recommended a warm bath. If I had then followedhis advice these words would never have been placed on record. After asecond draught at the hartshorn bottle, I proceeded on my way, feelingvery stupid and confused. On arriving at my friend's residence close by, he kindly procured me a bottle of brandy, of which I drank four largewine-glasses one after the other, but did not feel the least tipsy afterthe operation. Feeling nearly well, I started on my way home, and thenfor the first time perceived a most acute pain under the nail of theleft thumb: this pain also ran up the arm. I set to work to suck thewound, and then found out how the poison had got into the system. Aboutan hour before I examined the dead rat I had been cleaning the nail witha penknife, and had slightly separated the nail from the skin beneath. Into this little crack the poison had got when I was scraping the rat'sskin to examine the wound. How virulent, therefore, must the poison ofthe cobra be! It had already been circulated in the body of the rat, from which I had imbibed it second-hand!

MY MONKEY JACKO

From 'Curiosities of Natural History'

After some considerable amount of bargaining (in which amusing, sometimes animated, not to say exciting exhibition of talent, Englishmengenerally get worsted by the Frenchmen, as was the case in the presentinstance), Jacko became transferred, chain, tail and all, to his newEnglish master. Having arrived at the hotel, it became a question as towhat was to become of Jacko while his master was absent from home. Alittle closet, opening into the wall of the bedroom, offered itself as atemporary prison. Jacko was tied up _securely_--alas! how vain are thethoughts of man!--to one of the row of pegs that were fastened againstthe wall. As the door closed on him his wicked eyes seemed to say, "I'lldo some mischief now;" and sure enough he did, for when I came back torelease him, like Æneas, "Obstupni, steteruntque comæ et vox fancibus hæsit[5]. "

[Footnote 5: "Aghast, astonished, and struck dumb with fear, I stood; like bristles rose my stiffened hair. "--DRYDEN. ]

The walls, that but half an hour previously were covered with a finelyornamented paper, now stood out in the bold nakedness of lath andplaster; the relics on the floor showed that the little wretch's fingershad by no means been idle. The pegs were all loosened, the individualpeg to which his chain had been fastened, torn completely from itssocket, that the destroyer's movements might not be impeded, and anunfortunate garment that happened to be hung up in the closet was tornto a thousand shreds. If ever Jack Sheppard had a successor, it was thismonkey. If he had tied the torn bits of petticoat together and tried tomake his escape from the window, I don't think I should have been muchsurprised. .. . 

It was, after Jacko's misdeeds, quite evident that he must no longer beallowed full liberty; and a lawyer's blue bag, such as may be frequentlyseen in the dreaded neighborhood of the Court of Chancery, --filled, however, more frequently with papers and parchment than withmonkeys, --was provided for him; and this receptacle, with some hayplaced at the bottom for a bed, became his new abode. It was a movablehome, and therein lay the advantage; for when the strings of it weretied there was no mode of escape. He could not get his hands through theaperture at the end to unfasten them, the bag was too strong for him tobite his way through, and his ineffectual efforts to get out only hadthe effect of making the bag roll along the floor, and occasionally makea jump up into the air; forming altogether an exhibition which ifadvertised in the present day of wonders as "le bag vivant, " wouldattract crowds of delighted and admiring citizens. 

In the bag aforesaid he traveled as far as Southampton on his road totown. While taking the ticket at the railway station, Jacko, who mustneeds see everything that was going on, suddenly poked his head out ofthe bag and gave a malicious grin at the ticket-giver. This muchfrightened the poor man, but with great presence of mind, --quiteastonishing under the circumstances, --he retaliated the insult: "Sir, that's a dog; you must pay for it accordingly. " In vain was the monkeymade to come out of the bag and exhibit his whole person; in vain werearguments in full accordance with the views of Cuvier and Owen urgedeagerly, vehemently, and without hesitation (for the train was on thepoint of starting), to prove that the animal in question was not a dog, but a monkey. A dog it was in the peculiar views of the official, andthree-and-sixpence was paid. Thinking to carry the joke further (therewere just a few minutes to spare), I took out from my pocket a livetortoise I happened to have with me, and showing it, said, "What must Ipay for this, as you charge for _all_ animals?" The employé adjusted hisspecs, withdrew from the desk to consult with his superior; thenreturning, gave the verdict with a grave but determined manner, "Nocharge for them, sir: them be insects. "

HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE

(1821-1862)

Henry Thomas Buckle was born at Lee, in Kent, on November 24th, 1821, the son of a wealthy London merchant. A delicate child, he participatedin none of the ordinary sports of children, but sat instead for hourslistening to his mother's reading of the Bible and the 'Arabian Nights. 'She had a great influence on his early development. She was a Calvinist, deeply religious, and Buckle himself in after years acknowledged that toher he owed his faith in human progress through the dissemination andtriumph of truth, as well as his taste for philosophic speculations andhis love for poetry. His devotion to her was lifelong. Owing to hisfeeble health he passed but a few years at school, and did not entercollege. Nor did he know much, in the scholar's sense, of books. Till hewas nearly eighteen the 'Arabian Nights, ' the 'Pilgrim's Progress' andShakespeare constituted his chief reading. 

But he was fond of games of mental skill, and curiously enough, firstgained distinction, not in letters but at the chessboard, and in thecourse of his subsequent travels he challenged and defeated thechampions of Europe. He was concerned for a short time in business; butbeing left with an independent income at the death of his father, heresolved to devote himself to study. He traveled for a year on theContinent, learning on the spot the languages of the countries he passedthrough. In time he became an accomplished linguist, reading nineteenlanguages and conversing fluently in seven. 

By the time he was nineteen he had resolved to write a great historicwork, of a nature not yet attempted by any one. To prepare himself forthis monumental labor, and to make up for past deficiencies, he settledin London; and, apparently single-handed and without the advice or helpof tutors or professional men, entered upon that course of voluminousreading on which his erudition rests. 

He is a singular instance of a self-taught man, without scientific oracademic training, producing a work that marks an epoch in historicalliterature. With a wonderful memory, he had, like Macaulay, the gift ofgetting the meaning and value of a book by simply glancing over thepages. On an average he could read with intelligent comprehension threebooks in a working day of eight hours, and in time mastered his libraryof twenty-two thousand volumes, indexing every book on the back, andtranscribing many pages into his commonplace-books. In this way hespent fifteen years of study in collecting his materials. 

The first volume of his introduction to the 'History of Civilization inEngland' appeared in 1857, and aroused an extraordinary interest becauseof the novelty and audacity of its statements. It was both bitterlyattacked and enthusiastically praised, as it antagonized or attractedits readers. Buckle became the intellectual hero of the hour. The secondvolume appeared in May, 1861. And now, worn out by overwork, hisdelicate nerves completely unstrung by the death of his mother, who hadremained his first and only love, he left England for the East, incompany with the two young sons of a friend. In Palestine he wasstricken with typhoid fever, and died at Damascus on May 29th, 1862. Hisgrave is marked by a marble tomb with the inscription from the Arabic:--

 "The written word remains long after the writer; The writer is resting under the earth, but his works endure. "

Three volumes of 'Miscellanies and Posthumous Works, ' edited by HelenTaylor, were published in 1872. Among these are a lecture on 'Woman, 'delivered before the Royal Institution, --Buckle's single and verysuccessful attempt at public speaking, --and a Review of Mill's'Liberty, ' one of the finest contemporary appreciations of that thinker. But he wrote little outside his 'History, ' devoting himself with entiresingleness of purpose to his life-work. 

The introduction to the 'History of Civilization in England' has beenaptly called the "fragment of a fragment. " When as a mere youth heoutlined his work, he overestimated the extremest accomplishment of asingle mind, and did not clearly comprehend the vastness of theundertaking. He had planned a general history of civilization; but asthe material increased on his hands he was forced to limit his project, and finally decided to confine his work to a consideration of Englandfrom the middle of the sixteenth century. In February, 1853, he wrote toa friend:--

 "I have been long convinced that the progress of every people is regulated by principles--or as they are called, laws--as regular and as certain as those which govern the physical world. To discover these laws is the object of my work. .. . I propose to take a general survey of the moral, intellectual, and legislative peculiarities of the great countries of Europe; and I hope to point out the circumstances under which these peculiarities have arisen. This will lead to a perception of certain relations between the various stages through which each people have progressively passed. Of these _general_ relations I intend to make a _particular_ application; and by a careful analysis of the history of England, show how they have regulated our civilization, and how the successive and apparently the arbitrary forms of our opinions, our literature, our laws, and our manners, have naturally grown out of their antecedents. "

This general scheme was adhered to in the published history, and hesupported his views by a vast array of illustrations and proofs. Themain ideas advanced in the Introduction--for he did not live to writethe body of the work, the future volumes to which he often patheticallyrefers--these ideas may be thus stated:--First: Nothing had yet beendone toward discovering the principles underlying the character anddestiny of nations, to establish a basis for a science of history, --atask which Buckle proposed to himself. Second: Experience shows thatnations are governed by laws as fixed and regular as the laws of thephysical world. Third: Climate, soil, food, and the aspects of natureare the primary causes in forming the character of a nation. Fourth: Thecivilization within and without Europe is determined by the fact that inEurope man is stronger than nature, and here alone has subdued her tohis service; whereas on the other continents nature is the stronger andman has been subdued by her. Fifth: The continually increasing influenceof mental laws and the continually diminishing influence of physicallaws characterize the advance of European civilization. Sixth: Themental laws regulating the progress of society can only be discovered bysuch a comprehensive survey of facts as will enable us to eliminatedisturbances; namely, by the method of averages. Seventh: Human progressis due to intellectual activity, which continually changes and expands, rather than to moral agencies, which from the beginnings of society havebeen more or less stationary. Eighth: In human affairs in general, individual efforts are insignificant, and great men work for evil ratherthan for good, and are moreover merely incidental to their age. Ninth:Religion, literature, art, and government instead of being causes ofcivilization, are merely its products. Tenth: The progress ofcivilization varies directly as skepticism--the disposition to doubt, orthe "protective spirit"--the disposition to maintain without examinationestablished beliefs and practices, predominates. 

The new scientific methods of Darwin and Mill were just then beingeagerly discussed in England; and Buckle, an alert student and greatadmirer of Mill, in touch with the new movements of the day, proposed, "by applying to the history of man those methods of investigation whichhave been found successful in other branches of knowledge, and rejectingall preconceived notions which could not bear the test of thosemethods, " to remove history from the condemnation of being a mere seriesof arbitrary facts, or a biography of famous men, or the small-beerchronicle of court gossip and intrigues, and to raise it to the levelof an exact science, subject to mental laws as rigid and infallible asthe laws of nature:--

 "Instead of telling us of those things which alone have any value--instead of giving us information respecting the progress of knowledge and the way in which mankind has been affected by the diffusion of that knowledge . .. The vast majority of historians fill their works with the most trifling and miserable details. .. . In other great branches of knowledge, observation has preceded discovery; first the facts have been registered and then their laws have been found. But in the study of the history of man, the important facts have been neglected and the unimportant ones preserved. The consequence is, that whoever now attempts to generalize historical phenomena must collect the facts as well as conduct the generalization. "

Buckle's ideal of the office and acquirements of the historian was ofthe highest. He must indeed possess a synthesis of the whole range ofhuman knowledge to explain the progress of man. By connecting historywith political economy and statistics, he strove to make it exact. Andhe exemplified his theories by taking up branches of scientificinvestigation hitherto considered entirely outside the province of thehistorian. He first wrote history scientifically, pursuing the samemethods and using the same kinds of proofs as the scientific worker. Thefirst volume excited as much angry discussion as Darwin's 'Origin ofSpecies' had done in its day. The boldness of its generalizations, itsuncompromising and dogmatic tone, irritated more than one class ofreaders. The chapters on Spain and on Scotland, with their strictures onthe religions of those countries, containing some of the most brilliantpassages in the book, brought up in arms against him both Catholics andPresbyterians. Trained scientists blamed him for encroaching on theirdomains with an insufficient knowledge of the phenomena of the naturalworld, whence resulted a defective logic and vague generalizations. 

It is true that Buckle was not trained in the methods of the schools;that he labored under the disadvantage of a self-taught, solitaryworker, not receiving the friction of other vigorous minds; and that hisreading, if extensive, was not always wisely chosen, and from its veryamount often ill-digested. He had knowledge rather than true learning, and taking this knowledge at second hand, often relied on sources thatproved either untrustworthy or antiquated, for he lacked the truerelator's fine discrimination, that weighs and sifts authorities andrejects the inadequate. Malicious critics declared that all was gristthat came to his mill. Yet his popularity with that class of readerswhom he did not shock by his disquisitions on religions and morals, ormake distrustful by his sweeping generalizations and scientificinaccuracies, is due to the fact that his book appeared at the rightmoment: for the time was really come to make history something more thana chronicle of detached facts and anecdotes. The scientific spirit wasawake, and demanded that human action, like the processes of nature, bemade the subject of general law. The mind of Buckle proved fruitful soilfor those germs of thought floating in the air, and he gave them visibleform in his history. If he was not a leader, he was a brilliantformulator of thought, and he was the first to put before the readingworld, then ready to receive them, ideas and speculations till nowbelonging to the student. For he wrote with the determination to beintelligible to the general reader. It detracts nothing from thepermanent value of his work thus to state its genesis, for this ismerely to apply to it his own methods. 

Moreover, a perpetual charm lies in his clear, limpid English, a mediumperfectly adapted to calm exposition or to impassioned rhetoric. Whatever the defects of Buckle's system: whatever the inaccuracies thatthe advance of thirty years of patient scientific labors can easilypoint out; however sweeping his generalization; or however dogmatic hisassertions, the book must be allowed high rank among the works that setmen thinking, and must thus be conceded to possess enduring value. 

MORAL VERSUS INTELLECTUAL PRINCIPLES IN HUMAN PROGRESS

From the 'History of Civilization in England'

There is unquestionably nothing to be found in the world which hasundergone so little change as those great dogmas of which moral systemsare composed. To do good to others; to sacrifice for their benefit yourown wishes; to love your neighbor as yourself; to forgive your enemies;to restrain your passions; to honor your parents; to respect those whoare set over you, --these and a few others are the sole essentials ofmorals: but they have been known for thousands of years, and not one jotor tittle has been added to them by all the sermons, homilies, andtext-books which moralists and theologians have been able to produce. But if we contrast this stationary aspect of moral truths with theprogressive aspect of intellectual truths, the difference is indeedstartling. All the great moral systems which have exercised muchinfluence have been fundamentally the same; all the great intellectualsystems have been fundamentally different. In reference to our moralconduct, there is not a single principle now known to the mostcultivated Europeans which was not likewise known to the ancients. Inreference to the conduct of our intellect, the moderns have not onlymade the most important additions to every department of knowledge thatthe ancients ever attempted to study, but besides this they have upsetand revolutionized the old methods of inquiry; they have consolidatedinto one great scheme all those resources of induction which Aristotlealone dimly perceived; and they have created sciences, the faintest ideaof which never entered the mind of the boldest thinker antiquityproduced. 

These are, to every educated man, recognized and notorious facts; andthe inference to be drawn from them is immediately obvious. Sincecivilization is the product of moral and intellectual agencies, andsince that product is constantly changing, it evidently cannot beregulated by the stationary agent; because, when surroundingcircumstances are unchanged, a stationary agent can only produce astationary effect. The only other agent is the intellectual one; andthat this is the real mover may be proved in two distinct ways: firstbecause, being as we have already seen either moral or intellectual, andbeing as we have also seen not moral, it must be intellectual; andsecondly, because the intellectual principle has an activity and acapacity for adaptation which, as I undertake to show, is quitesufficient to account for the extraordinary progress that during severalcenturies Europe has continued to make. 

Such are the main arguments by which my view is supported; but there arealso other and collateral circumstances which are well worthy ofconsideration. The first is, that the intellectual principle is not onlyfar more progressive than the moral principle, but is also far morepermanent in its results. The acquisitions made by the intellect are, inevery civilized country, carefully preserved, registered in certainwell-understood formulas, and protected by the use of technical andscientific language; they are easily handed down from one generation toanother, and thus assuming an accessible, or as it were a tangible form, they often influence the most distant posterity, they become theheirlooms of mankind, the immortal bequest of the genius to which theyowe their birth. But the good deeds effected by our moral faculties areless capable of transmission; they are of a more private and retiringcharacter: while as the motives to which they owe their origin aregenerally the result of self-discipline and of self-sacrifice, theyhave to be worked out by every man for himself; and thus, begun by eachanew, they derive little benefit from the maxims of precedingexperience, nor can they well be stored up for the use of futuremoralists. The consequence is that although moral excellence is moreamiable, and to most persons more attractive, than intellectualexcellence, still it must be confessed that looking at ulterior results, it is far less active, less permanent, and as I shall presently prove, less productive of real good. Indeed, if we examine the effects of themost active philanthropy and of the largest and most disinterestedkindness, we shall find that those effects are, comparatively speaking, short-lived; that there is only a small number of individuals they comein contact with and benefit; that they rarely survive the generationwhich witnessed their commencement; and that when they take the moredurable form of founding great public charities, such institutionsinvariably fall, first into abuse, then into decay, and after a time areeither destroyed or perverted from their original intention, mocking theeffort by which it is vainly attempted to perpetuate the memory even ofthe purest and most energetic benevolence. 

These conclusions are no doubt very unpalatable; and what makes thempeculiarly offensive is, that it is impossible to refute them. For thedeeper we penetrate into this question, the more clearly shall we seethe superiority of intellectual acquisitions over moral feeling. Thereis no instance on record of an ignorant man who, having good intentionsand supreme power to enforce them, has not done far more evil than good. And whenever the intentions have been very eager, and the power veryextensive, the evil has been enormous. But if you can diminish thesincerity of that man, if you can mix some alloy with his motives, youwill likewise diminish the evil which he works. If he is selfish as wellas ignorant, it will often happen [that] you may play off his viceagainst his ignorance, and by exciting his fears restrain his mischief. If, however, he has no fear, if he is entirely unselfish, if his soleobject is the good of others, if he pursues that object with enthusiasm, upon a large scale, and with disinterested zeal, then it is that youhave no check upon him, you have no means of preventing the calamitieswhich in an ignorant age an ignorant man will be sure to inflict. Howentirely this is verified by experience, we may see in studying thehistory of religious persecution. To punish even a single man for hisreligious tenets is assuredly a crime of the deepest dye; but to punisha large body of men, to persecute an entire sect, to attempt toextirpate opinions which, growing out of the state of society in whichthey arise, are themselves a manifestation of the marvelous andluxuriant fertility of the human mind, --to do this is not only one ofthe most pernicious, but one of the most foolish acts that can possiblybe conceived. Nevertheless it is an undoubted fact that an overwhelmingmajority of religious persecutors have been men of the purestintentions, of the most admirable and unsullied morals. It is impossiblethat this should be otherwise. For they are not bad-intentioned men whoseek to enforce opinions which they believe to be good. Still less arethey bad men who are so regardless of temporal considerations as toemploy all the resources of their power, not for their own benefit, butfor the purpose of propagating a religion which they think necessary tothe future happiness of mankind. Such men as these are not bad, they areonly ignorant; ignorant of the nature of truth, ignorant of theconsequences of their own acts. But in a moral point of view theirmotives are unimpeachable. Indeed, it is the very ardor of theirsincerity which warms them into persecution. It is the holy zeal bywhich they are fired that quickens their fanaticism into a deadlyactivity. If you can impress any man with an absorbing conviction of thesupreme importance of some moral or religious doctrine; if you can makehim believe that those who reject that doctrine are doomed to eternalperdition; if you then give that man power, and by means of hisignorance blind him to the ulterior consequences of his own act, --hewill infallibly persecute those who deny his doctrine; and the extent ofhis persecution will be regulated by the extent of his sincerity. Diminish the sincerity, and you will diminish the persecution; in otherwords, by weakening the virtue you may check the evil. This is a truthof which history furnishes such innumerable examples, that to deny itwould be not only to reject the plainest and most conclusive arguments, but to refuse the concurrent testimony of every age. I will merelyselect two cases, which, from the entire difference in theircircumstances, are very apposite as illustrations: the first being fromthe history of Paganism, the other from the history of Christianity; andboth proving the inability of moral feelings to control religiouspersecution. 

I. The Roman emperors, as is well known, subjected the early Christiansto persecutions which, though they have been exaggerated, were frequentand very grievous. But what to some persons must appear extremelystrange, is, that among the active authors of these cruelties we findthe names of the best men who ever sat on the throne; while the worstand most infamous princes were precisely those who spared theChristians, and took no heed of their increase. The two most thoroughlydepraved of all the emperors were certainly Commodus and Elagabalus;neither of whom persecuted the new religion, or indeed adopted anymeasures against it. They were too reckless of the future, too selfish, too absorbed in their own infamous pleasures, to mind whether truth orerror prevailed; and being thus indifferent to the welfare of theirsubjects, they cared nothing about the progress of a creed which they, as Pagan emperors, were bound to regard as a fatal and impious delusion. They therefore allowed Christianity to run its course, unchecked bythose penal laws which more honest but more mistaken rulers wouldassuredly have enacted. We find, accordingly, that the great enemy ofChristianity was Marcus Aurelius; a man of kindly temper, and offearless, unflinching honesty, but whose reign was characterized by apersecution from which he would have refrained had he been less inearnest about the religion of his fathers. And to complete the argument, it may be added that the last and one of the most strenuous opponents ofChristianity who occupied the throne of the Cæsars was Julian; a princeof eminent probity, whose opinions are often attacked, but against whosemoral conduct even calumny itself has hardly breathed a suspicion. 

II. The second illustration is supplied by Spain; a country of which itmust be confessed, that in no other have religiuos feelings exercisedsuch sway over the affairs of men. No other European nation has producedso many ardent and disinterested missionaries, zealous self-denyingmartyrs, who have cheerfully sacrificed their lives in order topropagate truths which they thought necessary to be known. Nowhere elsehave the spiritual classes been so long in the ascendant; nowhere elseare the people so devout, the churches so crowded, the clergy sonumerous. But the sincerity and honesty of purpose by which the Spanishpeople, taken as a whole, have always been marked, have not only beenunable to prevent religious persecution, but have proved the means ofencouraging it. If the nation had been more lukewarm, it would havebeen more tolerant. As it was, the preservation of the faith became thefirst consideration; and everything being sacrificed to this one object, it naturally happened that zeal begat cruelty, and the soil was preparedin which the Inquisition took root and flourished. The supporters ofthat barbarous institution were not hypocrites, but enthusiasts. Hypocrites are for the most part too supple to be cruel. For cruelty isa stern and unbending passion; while hypocrisy is a fawning and flexibleart, which accommodates itself to human feelings, and flatters theweakness of men in order that it may gain its own ends. In Spain, theearnestness of the nation, being concentrated on a single topic, carriedeverything before it; and hatred of heresy becoming a habit, persecutionof heresy was thought a duty. The conscientious energy with which thatduty was fulfilled is seen in the history of the Spanish Church. Indeed, that the inquisitors were remarkable for an undeviating anduncorruptible integrity may be proved in a variety of ways, and fromdifferent and independent sources of evidence. This is a question towhich I shall hereafter return; but there are two testimonies which Icannot omit, because, from the circumstances attending them, they arepeculiarly unimpeachable. Llorente, the great historian of theInquisition, and its bitter enemy, had access to its private papers: andyet, with the fullest means of information, he does not even insinuate acharge against the moral character of the inquisitors; but whileexecrating the cruelty of their conduct, he cannot deny the purity oftheir intentions. Thirty years earlier, Townsend, a clergyman of theChurch of England, published his valuable work on Spain: and though, asa Protestant and an Englishman, he had every reason to be prejudicedagainst the infamous system which he describes, he also can bring nocharge against those who upheld it; but having occasion to mention itsestablishment at Barcelona, one of its most important branches, he makesthe remarkable admission that all its members are men of worth, and thatmost of them are of distinguished humanity. 

These facts, startling as they are, form a very small part of that vastmass of evidence which history contains, and which decisively proves theutter inability of moral feelings to diminish religious persecution. Theway in which the diminution has been really effected by the mereprogress of intellectual acquirements will be pointed out in anotherpart of this volume; when we shall see that the great antagonist ofintolerance is not humanity, but knowledge. It is to the diffusion ofknowledge, and to that alone, that we owe the comparative cessation ofwhat is unquestionably the greatest evil men have ever inflicted ontheir own species. For that religious persecution is a greater evil thanany other, is apparent, not so much from the enormous and almostincredible number of its known victims, as from the fact that theunknown must be far more numerous, and that history gives no account ofthose who have been spared in the body in order that they might sufferin the mind. We hear much of martyrs and confessors--of those who wereslain by the sword, or consumed in the fire: but we know little of thatstill larger number who by the mere threat of persecution have beendriven into an outward abandonment of their real opinions; and who, thusforced into an apostasy the heart abhors, have passed the remainder oftheir lives in the practice of a constant and humiliating hypocrisy. Itis this which is the real curse of religious persecution. For in thisway, men being constrained to mask their thoughts, there arises a habitof securing safety by falsehood, and of purchasing impunity with deceit. In this way fraud becomes a necessary of life; insincerity is made adaily custom; the whole tone of public feeling is vitiated, and thegross amount of vice and of error fearfully increased. Surely, then, wehave reason to say that, compared to this, all other crimes are of smallaccount; and we may well be grateful for that increase of intellectualpursuits which has destroyed an evil that some among us would even nowwillingly restore. 

THE MYTHICAL ORIGIN OF HISTORY

From the 'History of Civilization in England'

At a very early period in the progress of a people, and long before theyare acquainted with the use of letters, they feel the want of someresource which in peace may amuse their leisure, and in war maystimulate their courage. This is supplied to them by the invention ofballads; which form the groundwork of all historical knowledge, andwhich, in one shape or another, are found among some of the rudesttribes of the earth. They are for the most part sung by a class of menwhose particular business it is thus to preserve the stock oftraditions. Indeed, so natural is this curiosity as to past events thatthere are few nations to whom these bards or minstrels are unknown. Thus, to select a few instances, it is they who have preserved thepopular traditions, not only of Europe, but also of China, Tibet, andTartary; likewise of India, of Scinde, of Beloochistan, of Western Asia, of the islands of the Black Sea, of Egypt, of Western Africa, of NorthAmerica, of South America, and of the islands in the Pacific. 

In all these countries, letters were long unknown, and as a people inthat state have no means of perpetuating their history except by oraltradition, they select the form best calculated to assist their memory;and it will, I believe, be found that the first rudiments of knowledgeconsist always of poetry, and often of rhyme. The jingle pleases the earof the barbarian, and affords a security that he will hand it down tohis children in the unimpaired state in which he received it. Thisguarantee against error increases still further the value of theseballads; and instead of being considered as a mere amusement, they riseto the dignity of judicial authorities. The allusions contained in themare satisfactory proofs to decide the merits of rival families, or evento fix the limits of those rude estates which such a society canpossess. We therefore find that the professed reciters and composers ofthese songs are the recognized judges in all disputed matters; and asthey are often priests, and believed to be inspired, it is probably inthis way that the notion of the divine origin of poetry first arose. These ballads will of course vary according to the customs andtemperaments of the different nations, and according to the climate towhich they are accustomed. In the south they assume a passionate andvoluptuous form; in the north they are rather remarkable for theirtragic and warlike character. But notwithstanding these diversities, allsuch productions have one feature in common: they are not only foundedon truth, but making allowance for the colorings of poetry, they are allstrictly true. Men who are constantly repeating songs which theyconstantly hear, and who appeal to the authorized singers of them asfinal umpires in disputed questions, are not likely to be mistaken onmatters in the accuracy of which they have so lively an interest. 

This is the earliest and most simple of the various stages through whichhistory is obliged to pass. But in the course of time, unlessunfavorable circumstances intervene, society advances; and among otherchanges, there is one in particular of the greatest importance. I meanthe introduction of the art of writing, which, before many generationsare passed, must effect a complete alteration in the character of thenational traditions. The manner in which, this occurs has, so far as Iam aware, never been pointed out; and it will therefore be interestingto attempt to trace some of its details. 

The first and perhaps the most obvious consideration is, that theintroduction of the art of writing gives permanence to the nationalknowledge, and thus lessens the utility of that oral information inwhich all the acquirements of an unlettered people must be contained. Hence it is that as a country advances the influence of traditiondiminishes, and traditions themselves become less trustworthy. Besidesthis, the preservers of these traditions lose in this stage of societymuch of their former reputation. Among a perfectly unlettered people, the singers of ballads are, as we have already seen, the soledepositaries of those historical facts on which the fame, and often theproperty, of their chieftains principally depend. But when this samenation becomes acquainted with the art of writing, it grows unwilling tointrust these matters to the memory of itinerant singers, and availsitself of its new art to preserve them in a fixed and material form. Assoon as this is effected, the importance of those who repeat thenational traditions is sensibly diminished. They gradually sink into aninferior class, which, having lost its old reputation, no longerconsists of those superior men to whose abilities it owed its formerfame. Thus we see that although without letters there can be noknowledge of much importance, it is nevertheless true that theirintroduction is injurious to historical traditions in two distinct ways:first by weakening the traditions, and secondly by weakening the classof men whose occupation it is to preserve them. 

But this is not all. Not only does the art of writing lessen the numberof traditionary truths, but it directly encourages the propagation offalsehoods. This is effected by what may be termed a principle ofaccumulation, to which all systems of belief have been deeply indebted. In ancient times, for example, the name of Hercules was given to severalof those great public robbers who scourged mankind, and who, if theircrimes were successful as well as enormous, were sure after their deathto be worshiped as heroes. How this appellation originated isuncertain; but it was probably bestowed at first on a single man, andafterwards on those who resembled him in the character of theirachievements. This mode of extending the use of a single name is naturalto a barbarous people, and would cause little or no confusion, as longas the tradition of the country remained local and unconnected. But assoon as these traditions became fixed by a written language, thecollectors of them, deceived by the similarity of name, assembled thescattered facts, and ascribing to a single man these accumulatedexploits, degraded history to the level of a miraculous mythology. Inthe same way, soon after the use of letters was known in the North ofEurope, there was drawn up by Saxo Grammaticus the life of thecelebrated Ragnar Lodbrok. Either from accident or design, this greatwarrior of Scandinavia, who had taught England to tremble, had receivedthe same name as another Ragnar, who was prince of Jutland about ahundred years earlier. This coincidence would have caused no confusionas long as each district preserved a distinct and independent account ofits own Ragnar. But by possessing the resource of writing, men becameable to consolidate the separate trains of events, and as it were, fusetwo truths into one error. And this was what actually happened. Thecredulous Saxo put together the different exploits of both Ragnars, andascribing the whole of them to his favorite hero, has involved inobscurity one of the most interesting parts of the early historyof Europe. 

The annals of the North afford another curious instance of this sourceof error. A tribe of Finns called Quæns occupied a considerable part ofthe eastern coast of the Gulf of Bothnia. Their country was known asQuænland; and this name gave rise to a belief that to the north of theBaltic there was a nation of Amazons. This would easily have beencorrected by local knowledge: but by the use of writing, the flyingrumor was at once fixed; and the existence of such a people ispositively affirmed in some of the earliest European histories. Thus tooÅbo, the ancient capital of Finland, was called Turku, which in theSwedish language means a market-place. Adam of Bremen, having occasionto treat of the countries adjoining the Baltic, was so misled by theword Turku that this celebrated historian assures his readers that therewere Turks in Finland. 

To these illustrations many others might be added, showing how merenames deceived the early historians, and gave rise to relations whichwere entirely false, and might have been rectified on the spot; butwhich, owing to the art of writing, were carried into distant countriesand thus placed beyond the reach of contradiction. Of such cases, onemore may be mentioned, as it concerns the history of England. RichardI. , the most barbarous of our princes, was known to his contemporariesas the Lion; an appellation conferred upon him on account of hisfearlessness and the ferocity of his temper. Hence it was said that hehad the heart of a lion; and the title Coeur de Lion not only becameindissolubly connected with his name, but actually gave rise to a story, repeated by innumerable writers, according to which he slew a lion in asingle combat. The name gave rise to the story; the story confirmed thename: and another fiction was added to that long series of falsehoods ofwhich history mainly consisted during the Middle Ages. 

The corruptions of history, thus naturally brought about by the mereintroduction of letters, were in Europe aided by an additional cause. With the art of writing, there was in most cases also communicated aknowledge of Christianity; and the new religion not only destroyed manyof the Pagan traditions, but falsified the remainder by amalgamatingthem with monastic legends. The extent to which this was carried wouldform a curious subject for inquiry; but one or two instances of it willperhaps be sufficient to satisfy the generality of readers. 

Of the earliest state of the great Northern nations we have littlepositive evidence; but several of the lays in which the Scandinavianpoets related the feats of their ancestors or of their contemporariesare still preserved; and notwithstanding their subsequent corruption, itis admitted by the most competent judges that they embody real andhistorical events. But in the ninth and tenth centuries, Christianmissionaries found their way across the Baltic, and introduced aknowledge of their religion among the inhabitants of Northern Europe. Scarcely was this effected when the sources of history began to bepoisoned. At the end of the eleventh century Saemund Sigfusson, aChristian priest, gathered the popular and hitherto unwritten historiesof the North into what is called the "Elder Edda"; and he was satisfiedwith adding to his compilation the corrective of a Christian hymn. Ahundred years later there was made another collection of the nativehistories; but the principle which I have mentioned, having had a longertime to operate, now displayed its effects still more clearly. In thissecond collection, which is known by the name of the 'Younger Edda, 'there is an agreeable mixture of Greek, Jewish, and Christian fables;and for the first time in the Scandinavian annals, we meet with thewidely diffused fiction of a Trojan descent. 

If by way of further illustration we turn to other parts of the world, we shall find a series of facts confirming this view. We shall find thatin those countries where there has been no change of religion, historyis more trustworthy and connected than in those countries where such achange has taken place. In India, Brahmanism, which is still supreme, was established at so early a period that its origin is lost in theremotest antiquity. The consequence is that the native annals have neverbeen corrupted by any new superstition, and the Hindus are possessed ofhistoric traditions more ancient than can be found among any otherAsiatic people. In the same way, the Chinese have for upwards of twothousand years preserved the religion of Fo, which is a form ofBuddhism. In China, therefore, though the civilization has never beenequal to that of India, there is a history, not indeed as old as thenatives would wish us to believe, but still stretching back to severalcenturies before the Christian era, from whence it has been brought downto our own times in an uninterrupted succession. On the other hand, thePersians, whose intellectual development was certainly superior to thatof the Chinese, are nevertheless without any authentic informationrespecting the early transactions of their ancient monarchy. For this Ican see no possible reason except the fact that Persia, soon after thepromulgation of the Koran, was conquered by the Mohammedans, whocompletely subverted the Parsee religion and thus interrupted the streamof the national traditions. Hence it is that, putting aside the myths ofthe Zendavesta, we have no native authorities for Persian history of anyvalue, until the appearance in the eleventh century of the Shah Nameh;in which, however, Firdusi has mingled the miraculous relations of thosetwo religions by which his country had been successively subjected. Theresult is, that if it were not for the various discoveries which havebeen made, of monuments, inscriptions, and coins, we should be compelledto rely on the scanty and inaccurate details in the Greek writers forour knowledge of the history of one of the most important of the Asiaticmonarchies. 

GEORGE LOUIS LE CLERC BUFFON

(1707-1788)

BY SPENCER TROTTER

A science becomes part of the general stock of knowledge only after ithas entered into the literature of a people. The bare skeleton of factsmust be clothed with the flesh and blood of imagination, through thehumanizing influence of literary expression, before it can beassimilated by the average intellectual being. The scientificinvestigator is rarely endowed with the gift of weaving the facts into astory that will charm, and the man of letters is too often devoid ofthat patience which is the chief virtue of the scientist. These gifts ofthe gods are bestowed upon mankind under the guiding genius of thedivision of labor. The name of Buffon will always be associated withnatural history, though in the man himself the spirit of science wasconspicuously absent. In this respect he was in marked contrast with hiscontemporary Linnæus, whose intellect and labor laid the foundations ofmuch of the scientific knowledge of to-day. 

[ILLUSTRATION: BUFFON]

George Louis le Clerc Buffon was born on the 7th of September, 1707, atMontbar, in Burgundy. His father, Benjamin le Clerc, who was possessedof a fortune, appears to have bestowed great care and liberality on theeducation of his son. While a youth Buffon made the acquaintance of ayoung English nobleman, the Duke of Kingston, whose tutor, a man wellversed in the knowledge of physical science, exerted a profoundinfluence on the future career of the young Frenchman. At twenty-oneBuffon came into his mother's estate, a fortune yielding an annualincome of £12, 000. But this wealth did not change his purpose to gainknowledge. He traveled through Italy, and after living for a shortperiod in England returned to France and devoted his time to literarywork. His first efforts were translations of two English works ofscience--Hale's 'Vegetable Statics' and Newton's 'Fluxions'; and hefollowed these with various studies in the different branches ofphysical science. 

The determining event in his life, which led him to devote the rest ofhis years to the study of natural history, was the death of his friendDu Fay, the Intendant of the Jardin du Roi (now the Jardin des Plantes), who on his death-bed recommended Buffon as his successor. A man ofletters, Buffon saw before him the opportunity to write a naturalhistory of the earth and its inhabitants; and he set to work with a zealthat lasted until his death in 1788, at the age of eighty-one. His greatwork, 'L'Histoire Naturelle, ' was the outcome of these years of labor, the first edition being complete in thirty-six quarto volumes. 

The first fifteen volumes of this great work, published between theyears 1749 and 1767, treated of the theory of the earth, the nature ofanimals, and the history of man and viviparous quadrupeds; and was thejoint work of Buffon and Daubenton, a physician of Buffon's nativevillage. The scientific portion of the work was done by Daubenton, whopossessed considerable anatomical knowledge, and who wrote accuratedescriptions of the various animals mentioned. Buffon, however, affectedto ignore the work of his co-laborer and reaped the entire glory, sothat Daubenton withdrew his services. Later appeared the nine volumes onbirds, in which Buffon was aided by the Abbé Sexon. Then followed the'History of Minerals' in five volumes, and seven volumes of'Supplements, ' the last one of which was published the year afterBuffon's death. 

One can hardly admire the personal character of Buffon. He was vain andsuperficial, and given to extravagant speculations. He is reported tohave said, "I know but five great geniuses--Newton, Bacon, Leibnitz, Montesquieu, and myself. " His natural vanity was undoubtedly fostered bythe adulation which he received from those in authority. He saw his ownstatue placed in the cabinet of Louis XVI. , with the inscription"Majestati Naturæ par ingenium. " Louis XV. Bestowed upon him a title ofnobility, and crowned heads "addressed him in language of the mostexaggerated compliment. " Buffon's conduct and conversation were markedthroughout by a certain coarseness and vulgarity that constantly appearin his writings. He was foppish and trifling, and affected religionthough at heart a disbeliever. 

The chief value of Buffon's work lies in the fact that it first broughtthe subject of natural history into popular literature. Probably nowriter of the time, with the exception of Voltaire and Rousseau, was sowidely read and quoted as Buffon. But the gross inaccuracy whichpervaded his writings, and the visionary theories in which he constantlyindulged, gave the work a less permanent value than it might otherwisehave attained. Buffon detested the scientific method, preferringliterary finish to accuracy of statement. Although the work was widelytranslated, and was the only popular natural history of the time, thereis little of it that is worthy of a place in the world's bestliterature. It is chiefly as a relic of a past literary epoch, and asthe pioneer work in a new literary field, that Buffon's writings appealto us. They awakened for the first time a wide interest in naturalhistory, though their author was distinctly _not_ a naturalist. 

Arabella Buckley has said of Buffon and his writings that though "heoften made great mistakes and arrived at false conclusions, still he hadso much genius and knowledge that a great part of his work will alwaysremain true. " Cuvier has left us a good memoir of Buffon in the'Biographic Universelle. '

[Illustration: Signature: Spencer Trotter]

NATURE

From the 'Natural History'

So with what magnificence Nature shines upon the earth! A pure lightextending from east to west gilds successively the hemispheres of theglobe. An airy transparent element surrounds it; a warm and fruitfulheat animates and develops all its germs of life; living and salutarywaters tend to their support and increase; high points scattered overthe lands, by arresting the airy vapors, render these sourcesinexhaustible and always fresh; gathered into immense hollows, theydivide the continents. The extent of the sea is as great as that of theland. It is not a cold and sterile element, but another empire as richand populated as the first. The finger of God has marked the boundaries. When the waters encroach upon the beaches of the west, they leave barethose of the east. This enormous mass of water, itself inert, followsthe guidance of heavenly movements. Balanced by the regular oscillationsof ebb and flow, it rises and falls with the planet of night; risingstill higher when concurrent with the planet of day, the two unitingtheir forces during the equinoxes cause the great tides. Our connectionwith the heavens is nowhere more clearly indicated. From these constantand general movements result others variable and particular: removals ofearth, deposits at the bottom of water forming elevations like thoseupon the earth's surface, currents which, following the direction ofthese mountain ranges, shape them to corresponding angles; and rollingin the midst of the waves, as waters upon the earth, are in truth therivers of the sea. 

The air, too, lighter and more fluid than water, obeys many forces: thedistant action of sun and moon, the immediate action of the sea, that ofrarefying heat and of condensing cold, produce in it continualagitations. The winds are its currents, driving before them andcollecting the clouds. They produce meteors; transport the humid vaporsof maritime beaches to the land surfaces of the continents; determinethe storms; distribute the fruitful rains and kindly dews; stir the sea;agitate the mobile waters, arrest or hasten the currents; raise floods;excite tempests. The angry sea rises toward heaven and breaks roaringagainst immovable dikes, which it can neither destroy nor surmount. 

The land elevated above sea-level is safe from these irruptions. Itssurface, enameled with flowers, adorned with ever fresh verdure, peopledwith thousands and thousands of differing species of animals, is a placeof repose; an abode of delights, where man, placed to aid nature, dominates all other things, the only one who can know and admire. Godhas made him spectator of the universe and witness of his marvels. He isanimated by a divine spark which renders him a participant in the divinemysteries; and by whose light he thinks and reflects, sees and reads inthe book of the world as in a copy of divinity. 

Nature is the exterior throne of God's glory. The man who studies andcontemplates it rises gradually towards the interior throne ofomniscience. Made to adore the Creator, he commands all the creatures. Vassal of heaven, king of earth, which he ennobles and enriches, heestablishes order, harmony, and subordination among living beings. Heembellishes Nature itself; cultivates, extends, and refines it;suppresses its thistles and brambles, and multiplies its grapesand roses. 

Look upon the solitary beaches and sad lands where man has never dwelt:covered--or rather bristling--with thick black woods on all their risingground, stunted barkless trees, bent, twisted, falling from age; nearby, others even more numerous, rotting upon heaps alreadyrotten, --stifling, burying the germs ready to burst forth. Nature, youngeverywhere else, is here decrepit. The land surmounted by the ruins ofthese productions offers, instead of flourishing verdure, only anincumbered space pierced by aged trees, loaded with parasitic plants, lichens, agarics--impure fruits of corruption. In the low parts iswater, dead and stagnant because undirected; or swampy soil neithersolid nor liquid, hence unapproachable and useless to the habitants bothof land and of water. Here are swamps covered with rank aquatic plantsnourishing only venomous insects and haunted by unclean animals. Betweenthese low infectious marshes and these higher ancient forests extendplains having nothing in common with our meadows, upon which weedssmother useful plants. There is none of that fine turf which seems likedown upon the earth, or of that enameled lawn which announces abrilliant fertility; but instead an interlacement of hard and thornyherbs which seem to cling to each other rather than to the soil, andwhich, successively withering and impeding each other, form a coarse matseveral feet thick. There are no roads, no communications, no vestigesof intelligence in these wild places. Man, obliged to follow the pathsof savage beasts and to watch constantly lest he become their prey, terrified by their roars, thrilled by the very silence of these profoundsolitudes, turns back and says:--

Primitive nature is hideous and dying; I, I alone, can make it livingand agreeable. Let us dry these swamps; converting into streams andcanals, animate these dead waters by setting them in motion. Let us usethe active and devouring element once hidden from us, and which weourselves have discovered; and set fire to this superfluous mat, tothese aged forests already half consumed, and finish with iron what firecannot destroy! Soon, instead of rush and water-lily from which the toadcompounds his venom, we shall see buttercups and clover, sweet andsalutary herbs. Herds of bounding animals will tread this onceimpracticable soil and find abundant, constantly renewed pasture. Theywill multiply, to multiply again. Let us employ the new aid to completeour work; and let the ox, submissive to the yoke, exercise his strengthin furrowing the land. Then it will grow young again with cultivation, and a new nature shall spring up under our hands. 

How beautiful is cultivated Nature when by the cares of man she isbrilliantly and pompously adorned! He himself is the chief ornament, themost noble production; in multiplying himself he multiplies her mostprecious gem. She seems to multiply herself with him, for his art bringsto light all that her bosom conceals. What treasures hitherto ignored!What new riches! Flowers, fruits, perfected grains infinitelymultiplied; useful species of animals transported, propagated, endlesslyincreased; harmful species destroyed, confined, banished; gold, and ironmore necessary than gold, drawn from the bowels of the earth; torrentsconfined; rivers directed and restrained; the sea, submissive andcomprehended, crossed from one hemisphere to the other; the eartheverywhere accessible, everywhere living and fertile; in the valleys, laughing prairies; in the plains, rich pastures or richer harvests; thehills loaded with vines and fruits, their summits crowned by usefultrees and young forests; deserts changed to cities inhabited by a greatpeople, who, ceaselessly circulating, scatter themselves from centres toextremities; frequent open roads and communications establishedeverywhere like so many witnesses of the force and union of society; athousand other monuments of power and glory: proving that man, master ofthe world, has transformed it, renewed its whole surface, and that heshares his empire with Nature. 

However, he rules only by right of conquest, and enjoys rather thanpossesses. He can only retain by ever-renewed efforts. If these cease, everything languishes, changes, grows disordered, enters again into thehands of Nature. She retakes her rights; effaces man's work; covers hismost sumptuous monuments with dust and moss; destroys them in time, leaving him only the regret that he has lost by his own fault theconquests of his ancestors. These periods during which man loses hisdomain, ages of barbarism when everything perishes, are always preparedby wars and arrive with famine and depopulation. Man, who can do nothingexcept in numbers, and is only strong in union, only happy in peace, hasthe madness to arm himself for his unhappiness and to fight for his ownruin. Incited by insatiable greed, blinded by still more insatiableambition, he renounces the sentiments of humanity, turns all his forcesagainst himself, and seeking to destroy his fellow, does indeed destroyhimself. And after these days of blood and carnage, when the smoke ofglory has passed away, he sees with sadness that the earth isdevastated, the arts buried, the nations dispersed, the races enfeebled, his own happiness ruined, and his power annihilated. 

THE HUMMING-BIRD

From the 'Natural History'

Of all animated beings this is the most elegant in form and the mostbrilliant in colors. The stones and metals polished by our arts are notcomparable to this jewel of Nature. She has placed it least in size ofthe order of birds, _maxime miranda in minimis_. Her masterpiece is thelittle humming-bird, and upon it she has heaped all the gifts which theother birds may only share. Lightness, rapidity, nimbleness, grace, andrich apparel all belong to this little favorite. The emerald, the ruby, and the topaz gleam upon its dress. It never soils them with the dust ofearth, and in its aërial life scarcely touches the turf an instant. Always in the air, flying from flower to flower, it has their freshnessas well as their brightness. It lives upon their nectar, and dwells onlyin the climates where they perennially bloom. 

All kinds of humming-birds are found in the hottest countries of the NewWorld. They are quite numerous and seem to be confined between the twotropics, for those which penetrate the temperate zones in summer onlystay there a short time. They seem to follow the sun in its advance andretreat; and to fly on the wing of zephyrs after an eternal spring. 

The smaller species of the humming-birds are less in size than the greatfly wasp, and more slender than the drone. Their beak is a fine needleand their tongue a slender thread. Their little black eyes are like twoshining points, and the feathers of their wings so delicate that theyseem transparent. Their short feet, which they use very little, are sotiny one can scarcely see them. They alight only at night, resting inthe air during the day. They have a swift continual humming flight. Themovement of their wings is so rapid that when pausing in the air, thebird seems quite motionless. One sees him stop before a blossom, thendart like a flash to another, visiting all, plunging his tongue intotheir hearts, flattening them with his wings, never settling anywhere, but neglecting none. He hastens his inconstancies only to pursue hisloves more eagerly and to multiply his innocent joys. For this lightlover of flowers lives at their expense without ever blighting them. Heonly pumps their honey, and to this alone his tongue seems destined. 

The vivacity of these small birds is only equaled by their courage, orrather their audacity. Sometimes they may be seen chasing furiouslybirds twenty times their size, fastening upon their bodies, lettingthemselves be carried along in their flight, while they peck themfiercely until their tiny rage is satisfied. Sometimes they fight eachother vigorously. Impatience seems their very essence. If they approacha blossom and find it faded, they mark their spite by hasty rending ofthe petals. Their only voice is a weak cry, "_screp, screp_, " frequentand repeated, which they utter in the woods from dawn, until at thefirst rays of the sun they all take flight and scatter over the country. 

EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON

(1803-1873)

BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE

The patrician in literature is always an interesting spectacle. We areprone to regard his performance as a test of the worth of long descentand high breeding. If he does well, he vindicates the claims of hiscaste; if ill, we infer that inherited estates and blue blood are butsurface advantages, leaving the effective brain unimproved, or evencausing deterioration. But the argument is still open; and whethergenius be the creature of circumstance or divinely independent, is aquestion which prejudice rather than evidence commonly decides. 

Certainly literature tries men's souls. The charlatan must betrayhimself. Genius shines through all cerements. On the other hand, geniusmay be nourished, and the charlatan permeates all classes. The truthprobably is that an aristocrat is quite as apt as a plebeian to be agood writer. Only since there are fewer of the former than of thelatter, and since, unlike the last, the first are seldom forced to liveby their brains, there are more plebeian than aristocratic names on theliterary roll of honor. Admitting this, the instance of the writer knownas "Bulwer" proves nothing one way or the other. At all events, not, Washe a genius because he was a, patrician? but, Was he a genius at all? isthe inquiry most germane to our present purpose. 

An aristocrat of aristocrats undoubtedly he was, though it concerns usnot to determine whether the blood of Plantagenet kings and Normanconquerors really flowed in his veins. On both father's and mother'sside he was thoroughly well connected. Heydon Hall in Norfolk was thehereditary home of the Norman Bulwers; the Saxon Lyttons had since theConquest lived at Knebworth in Derbyshire. The historic background ofeach family was honorable, and when the marriage of William Earle Bulwerwith Elizabeth Barbara Lytton united them, it might be said that intheir offspring England found her type. 

Edward, being the youngest son, had little money, but he happened tohave brains. He began existence delicate and precocious. Culture, withhim, set in almost with what he would have termed the "consciousness ofhis own identity, " and the process never intermitted: in fact, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, his spiritual andintellectual emancipation was hindered by many obstacles; for, an ailingchild, he was petted by his mother, and such germs of intelligence(verses at seven years old, and the like) as he betrayed were trumpetedas prodigies. He was spoilt so long before he was ripe that it is amarvel he ever ripened at all. Many years must pass before vanity couldbe replaced in him by manly ambition; a vein of silliness is traceablethrough his career almost to the end. He expatiated in the falsetto key;almost never do we hear in his voice that hearty bass note so dear toplain humanity. In his pilgrimage toward freedom he had to wrestle notonly with flesh-and-blood mothers, uncles, and wives, _et id genusomne_, but with the more subtle and vital ideas, superstitions, andprejudices appertaining to his social station. His worst foes were notthose of his household merely, but of his heart. The more arduousachievement of such a man is to see his real self and believe in it. There are so many misleading purple-velvet waistcoats, gold chains, superfine sentiments, and blue-blooded affiliations in the way, that thetrue nucleus of so much decoration becomes less accessible than theneedle in the hay-stack. It is greatly to Bulwer's credit that he stuckvaliantly to his quest, and nearly, if not quite, ran down his game atlast. His intellectual record is one of constant progress, fromchildhood to age. 

Whether his advance in other respects was as uniform does not muchconcern us. He was unhappy with his wife, and perhaps they even threwthings at each other at table, the servants looking on. Nothing in hismatrimonial relations so much became him as his conduct after theirseverance: he held his tongue like a man, in spite of the poor lady'sshrieks and clapper-clawings. His whimsical, hair-splittingconscientiousness is less admirable. A healthy conscience does notwhine--it creates. No one cares to know what a man thinks of his ownactions. No one is interested to learn that Bulwer meant 'Paul Clifford'to be an edifying work, or that he married his wife from the highestmotives. We do not take him so seriously: we are satisfied that he wrotethe story first and discovered its morality afterwards; and that loftymotives would not have united him to Miss Rosina Doyle Wheeler had shenot been pretty and clever. His hectic letters to his mamma; his Byronicstruttings and mouthings over the grave of his schoolgirl lady-love; hiseighteenth-century comedy-scene with Caroline Lamb; his starched-frillparticipation in the Fred Villiers duel at Boulogne, --how silly andartificial is all this! There is no genuine feeling in it: he attireshimself in tawdry sentiment as in a flowered waistcoat. What adifference between him, at this period, and his contemporary BenjaminDisraeli, who indeed committed similar inanities, but with a saturninesense of humor cropping out at every turn which altered the wholecomplexion of the performance. We laugh at the one, but withthe other. 

[Illustration: BULWER-LYTTON. ]

Of course, however, there was a man hidden somewhere in Edward Bulwer'sperfumed clothes and mincing attitudes, else the world had long sinceforgotten him. Amidst his dandyism, he learned how to speak well indebate and how to use his hands to guard his head; he paid his debts byhonest hard work, and would not be dishonorably beholden to his motheror any one else. He posed as a blighted being, and invented blackevening-dress; but he lived down the scorn of such men as Tennyson andThackeray, and won their respect and friendship at last. He aimed high, according to his lights, meant well, and in the long run did well too. 

The main activities of his life--and from start to finish his energy wasgreat--were in politics and in literature. His political career coversabout forty years, from the time he took his degree at Cambridge tillLord Derby made him a peer in 1866. He accomplished nothing of seriousimportance, but his course was always creditable: he began as asentimental Radical and ended as a liberal Conservative; he advocatedthe Crimean War; the Corn Laws found him in a compromising humor; hisrecord as Colonial Secretary offers nothing memorable in statesmanship. The extraordinary brilliancy of his brother Henry's diplomatic lifethrows Edward's achievements into the shade. There is nothing to beashamed of, but had he done nothing else he would have been unknown. Butliterature, first seriously cultivated as a means of livelihood, outlasted his political ambitions, and his books are to-day his onlyclaim to remembrance. They made a strong impression at the time theywere written, and many are still read as much as ever, by a generationborn after his death. Their popularity is not of the catchpenny sort;thoughtful people read them, as well as the great drove of theundiscriminating. For they are the product of thought: they showworkmanship; they have quality; they are carefully made. If the literarycritic never finds occasion to put off the shoes from his feet as in thesacred presence of genius, he is constantly moved to recognize with afriendly nod the presence of sterling talent. He is even inclined tothink that nobody else ever had so much talent as this littlered-haired, blue-eyed, high-nosed, dandified Edward Bulwer; the meremass of it lifts him at times to the levels where genius dwells, thoughhe never quite shares their nectar and ambrosia. He as it were catchesechoes of the talk of the Immortals, --the turn of their phrase, theintonation of their utterance, --and straightway reproduces it with thefidelity of the phonograph. But, as in the phonograph, we find somethinglacking; our mind accepts the report as genuine, but our ear affirms anunreality; this is reproduction, indeed, but not creation. Bulwerhimself, when his fit is past, and his critical faculty re-awakens, probably knows as well as another that these labored and meritoriouspages of his are not graven on the eternal adamant. But they are thebest he can do, and perhaps there is none better of their kind. Theyhave a right to be; for while genius may do harm as well as good, Bulwernever does harm, and in spite of sickly sentiment and sham philosophy, is uniformly instructive, amusing, and edifying. 

"To love her, " wrote Dick Steele of a certain great dame, "is a liberaleducation;" and we might almost say the same of the reading of Bulwer'sromances. He was learned, and he put into his books all his learning, aswell as all else that was his. They represent artistically grouped, ingeniously lighted, with suitable acompaniments of music andillusion--the acquisitions of his intellect, the sympathies of hisnature, and the achievements of his character. 

He wrote in various styles, making deliberate experiments in one afteranother, and often hiding himself completely in anonymity. He wasversatile, not deep. Robert Louis Stevenson also employs various styles;but with him the changes are intuitive--they are the subtle variationsin touch and timbre which genius makes, in harmony with the subjecttreated. Stevenson could not have written 'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde' inthe same tune and key as 'Treasure Island'; and the music of 'Marxheim'differs from both. The reason is organic: the writer is inspired by histheme, and it passes through his mind with a lilt and measure of itsown. It makes its own style, just as a human spirit makes its ownfeatures and gait; and we know Stevenson through all his transformationsonly by dint of the exquisite distinction and felicity of word andphrase that always characterize him. Now, with Bulwer there is none ofthis lovely inevitable spontaneity. He costumes his tale arbitrarily, like a stage-haberdasher, and invents a voice to deliver it withal. 'TheLast Days of Pompeii' shall be mouthed out grandiloquently; theincredibilities of 'The Coming Race' shall wear the guise of naïve andartless narrative; the humors of 'The Caxtons' and 'What Will He Do withIt?' shall reflect the mood of the sagacious, affable man of the world, gossiping over the nuts and wine; the marvels of 'Zanoni' and 'A StrangeStory' must be portrayed with a resonance and exaltation of dictionfitted to their transcendental claims. But between the stark mechanismof the Englishman and the lithe, inspired felicity of the Scot, what adifference!

Bulwer's work may be classified according to subject, though notchronologically. He wrote novels of society, of history, of mystery, andof romance. In all he was successful, and perhaps felt as much interestin one as in another. In his own life the study of the occult played apart; he was familiar with the contemporary fads in mystery andacquainted with their professors. "Ancient" history also attracted him, and he even wrote a couple of volumes of a 'History of Athens. ' In allhis writing there is a tendency to lapse into a discussion of the "Idealand the Real, " aiming always at the conclusion that the only true Realis the Ideal. It was this tendency which chiefly aroused the ridicule ofhis critics, and from the 'Sredwardlyttonbulwig' of Thackeray to the'Condensed Novels' burlesque of Bret Harte, they harp upon that facilestring, The thing satirized is after all not cheaper than the satire. The ideal _is_ the true real; the only absurdity lies in the pomp andcircumstance wherewith that simple truth is introduced. There _is_ a'Dweller on the Threshold, ' but it, or he, is nothing more than thatdoubt concerning the truth of spiritual things which assails allbeginners in higher speculation, and there was no need to call it or himby so formidable a name. A sense of humor would have saved Bulwer fromalmost all his faults, and have endowed him with several valuablevirtues into the bargain; but it was not born in him, and with all hisdiligence he never could beget it. 

The domestic series, of which 'The Caxtons' is the type, are the mostgenerally popular of his works, and are likely to be so longest. Theromantic vein ('Ernest Maltravers, ' 'Alice, or the Mysteries, ' etc. ) arein his worst style, and are now only in existence as books because theyare members of "the edition, " It is doubtful if any human being has readone of them through in twenty years. Such historical books as 'The LastDays of Pompeii' are not only well constructed dramatically, but arepainfully accurate in details, and may still be read for information aswell as for pleasure. The 'Zanoni' species is undeniably interesting. The weird traditions of the 'Philosopher's Stone' and the 'Elixir ofLife' can never cease to fascinate human souls, and all theparaphernalia of magic are charming to minds weary of thematter-of-factitude of current existence. The stories are put togetherwith Bulwer's unfailing cleverness, and in all external respects neitherDumas nor Balzac has done anything better in this kind: the trouble isthat these authors compel our belief, while Bulwer does not. For, oncemore, he lacks the magic of genius and the spirit of style which areimmortally and incommunicably theirs, without which no other magic canbe made literarily effective. 

'Pelham, ' written at twenty-five years of age, is a creditable boy'sbook; it aims to portray character as well as to develop incidents, andin spite of the dreadful silliness of its melodramatic passages it hasmerit. Conventionally it is more nearly a work of art than that otherfamous boy's book, Disraeli's 'Vivian Grey, ' though the latter is aliveand blooming with the original literary charm which is denied to theother. Other characteristic novels of his are 'The Last Days ofPompeii, ' 'Ernest Maltravers, ' 'Zanoni, ' 'The Caxtons, ' 'My Novel, ''What Will He Do with It?' 'A Strange Story, ' 'The Coming Race, ' and'Kenelm Chillingly, ' the last of which appeared in the year of theauthor's death, 1873. The student who has read these books will know allthat is worth knowing of Bulwer's work. He wrote upwards of fiftysubstantial volumes, and left a mass of posthumous material besides. Ofall that he did, the most nearly satisfactory thing is one of the last, 'Kenelm Chillingly. ' In style, persons, and incidents it is alikecharming: it subsides somewhat into the inevitable Bulwer sentimentalitytowards the end--a silk purse cannot be made out of a sow's ear; but themiracle was never nearer being accomplished than in this instance. Herewe see the thoroughly equipped man of letters doing with apparent easewhat scarce five of his contemporaries could have done at all. The bookis lightsome and graceful, yet it touches serious thoughts: mostremarkable of all, it shows a suppleness of mind and freshness offeeling more to be expected in a youth of thirty than in a veteran ofthreescore and ten. Bulwer never ceased to grow; and what is betterstill, to grow away from his faults and towards improvement. 

But in comparing him with others, we must admit that he had betteropportunities than most. His social station brought him in contact withthe best people and most pregnant events of his time; and the drivingpoverty of youth having established him in the novel-writing habit, hethereafter had leisure to polish and expand his faculty to the utmost. No talent of his was folded up in a napkin: he did his best and utmostwith all he had. Whereas the path of genius is commonly tortuous andhard-beset: and while we are always saying of Shakespeare, or Thackeray, or Shelley, or Keats, or Poe, "What wonders they would have done hadlife been longer or fate kinder to them!"--of Bulwer we say, "No helpwas wanting to him, and he profited by all; he got out of the egg morethan we had believed was in it!" Instead of a great faculty hobbled bycircumstance, we have a small faculty magnified by occasion andenriched by time. 

Certainly, as men of letters go, Bulwer must be accounted fortunate. Thelong inflamed row of his domestic life apart, all things went his way. He received large sums for his books; at the age of forty, his motherdying, he succeeded to the Knebworth estate; three-and-twenty yearslater his old age (if such a man could be called old) was consoled bythe title of Lord Lytton. His health was never robust, and occasionallyfailed; but he seems to have been able to accomplish after a fashioneverything that he undertook; he was "thorough, " as the English say. Helived in the midst of events; he was a friend of the men who made theage, and saw them make it, lending a hand himself too when and where hecould. He lived long enough to see the hostility which had opposed himin youth die away, and honor and kindness take its place. Let it berepeated, his aims were good. He would have been candid andun-selfconscious had that been possible for him; and perhaps the failurewas one of manner rather than of heart. --Yes, he was a fortunate man. 

His most conspicuous success was as a play-writer. In view of hisessentially dramatic and historic temperament, it is surprising that hedid not altogether devote himself to this branch of art; but all hisdramas were produced between his thirty-third and his thirty-eighthyears. The first--'La Duchesse de la Valliere' was not to the publicliking; but 'The Lady of Lyons, ' written in two weeks, is inundiminished favor after near sixty years; and so are 'Richelieu' and'Money. ' There is no apparent reason why Bulwer should not have been asprolific a stage-author as Molière or even Lope de Vega. But we oftenvalue our best faculties least. 

'The Coming Race, ' published anonymously and never acknowledged duringhis life, was an unexpected product of his mind, but is useful to markhis limitations. It is a forecast of the future, and proves, as nothingelse could so well do, the utter absence in Bulwer of the creativeimagination. It is an invention, cleverly conceived, mechanically andrather tediously worked out, and written in a style astonishinglycommonplace. The man who wrote that book (one would say) had no heavenin his soul, nor any pinions whereon to soar heavenward. Yet it is fullof thought and ingenuity, and the central conception of "vrii" has beenmuch commended. But the whole concoction is tainted with the deadness ofstark materialism, and we should be unjust, after all, to deny Bulwersomething loftier and broader than is discoverable here. In inventingthe narrative he depended upon the weakest element in his mentalmake-up, and the result could not but be dismal. We like to believe thatthere was better stuff in him than he himself ever found; and that whenhe left this world for the next, he had sloughed off more dross thanmost men have time to accumulate. 

[Illustration: Signature:]

THE AMPHITHEATRE

From 'The Last Days of Pompeii'

On the upper tier (but apart from the male spectators) sat the women, their gay dresses resembling some gaudy flowerbed; it is needless to addthat they were the most talkative part of the assembly; and many werethe looks directed up to them, especially from the benches appropriatedto the young and the unmarried men. On the lower seats round the arenasat the more high-born and wealthy visitors--the magistrates and thoseof senatorial or equestrian dignity: the passages which, by corridors atthe right and left, gave access to these seats, at either end of theoval arena, were also the entrances for the combatants. Strong palingsat these passages prevented any unwelcome eccentricity in the movementsof the beasts, and confined them to their appointed prey. Around theparapet which was raised above the arena, and from which the seatsgradually rose, were gladiatorial inscriptions, and paintings wrought infresco, typical of the entertainments for which the place was designed. Throughout the whole building wound invisible pipes, from which, as theday advanced, cooling and fragrant showers were to be sprinkled over thespectators. The officers of the amphitheatre were still employed in thetask of fixing the vast awning (or _velaria_) which covered the whole, and which luxurious invention the Campanians arrogated to themselves: itwas woven of the whitest Apulian wool, and variegated with broad stripesof crimson. Owing either to some inexperience on the part of the workmenor to some defect in the machinery, the awning, however, was notarranged that day so happily as usual; indeed, from the immense space ofthe circumference, the task was always one of great difficulty andart--so much so that it could seldom be adventured in rough or windyweather. But the present day was so remarkably still that there seemedto the spectators no excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers; andwhen a large gap in the back of the awning was still visible, from theobstinate refusal of one part of the velaria to ally itself with therest, the murmurs of discontent were loud and general. 

The sedile Pansa, at whose expense the exhibition was given, lookedparticularly annoyed at the defect, and vowed bitter vengeance on thehead of the chief officer of the show, who, fretting, puffing, perspiring, busied himself in idle orders and unavailing threats. 

The hubbub ceased suddenly--the operators desisted--the crowd werestilled--the gap was forgotten--for now, with a loud and warlikeflourish of trumpets, the gladiators, marshaled in ceremoniousprocession, entered the arena. They swept round the oval space veryslowly and deliberately, in order to give the spectators full leisure toadmire their stern serenity of feature--their brawny limbs and variousarms, as well as to form such wagers as the excitement of the momentmight suggest. 

"Oh!" cried the widow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa, as they leaned downfrom their lofty bench, "do you see that gigantic gladiator? how drollyhe is dressed!"

"Yes, " said the aedile's wife with complacent importance, for she knewall the names and qualities of each combatant: "he is a retiarius ornetter; he is armed only, you see, with a three-pronged spear like atrident, and a net; he wears no armor, only the fillet and the tunic. Heis a mighty man, and is to fight with Sporus, yon thick-set gladiator, with the round shield and drawn sword but without body armor; he has nothis helmet on now, in order that you may see his face--how fearless itis! By-and-by he will fight with his visor down. "

"But surely a net and a spear are poor arms against a shield and sword?"

"That shows how innocent you are, my dear Fulvia: the retiarius hasgenerally the best of it. "

"But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked--is it not quiteimproper? By Venus! but his limbs are beautifully shaped!"

"It is Lydon, a young untried man! he has the rashness to fight yonother gladiator similarly dressed, or rather undressed--Tetraides. Theyfight first in the Greek fashion, with the cestus; afterward they put onarmor, and try sword and shield. "

"He is a proper man, this Lydon; and the women, I am sure, are on hisside. "

"So are not the experienced bettors: Clodius offers three to one againsthim. "

"Oh, Jove! how beautiful!" exclaimed the widow, as two gladiators, armed_cap-à-pie, _ rode round the arena on light and prancing steeds. Resembling much the combatants in the tilts of the middle age, theybore lances and round shields beautifully inlaid; their armor was wovenintricately with bands of iron, but it covered only the thighs and theright arms; short cloaks extending to the seat gave a picturesque andgraceful air to their costume; their legs were naked with the exceptionof sandals, which were fastened a little above the ankle. "Oh, beautiful! Who are these?" asked the widow. 

"The one is named Berbix: he has conquered twelve times. The otherassumes the arrogant Nobilior. They are both Gauls. "

While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show were over. Tothese succeeded a feigned combat with wooden swords between the variousgladiators matched against each other. Among these the skill of twoRoman gladiators, hired for the occasion, was the most admired; and nextto them the most graceful combatant was Lydon. This sham contest did notlast above an hour, nor did it attract any very lively interest exceptamong those connoisseurs of the arena to whom art was preferable to morecoarse excitement; the body of the spectators were rejoiced when it wasover, and when the sympathy rose to terror. The combatants were nowarranged in pairs, as agreed beforehand; their weapons examined; and thegrave sports of the day commenced amid the deepest silence--broken onlyby an exciting and preliminary blast of warlike music. 

It was often customary to begin the sports by the most cruel of all; andsome bestiarius, or gladiator appointed to the beasts, was slain firstas an initiatory sacrifice. But in the present instance the experiencedPansa thought better that the sanguinary drama should advance, notdecrease, in interest; and accordingly the execution of Olinthus andGlaucus was reserved for the last. It was arranged that the two horsemenshould first occupy the arena; that the foot gladiators, paired off, should then be loosed indiscriminately on the stage; that Glaucus andthe lion should next perform their part in the bloody spectacle; and thetiger and the Nazarene be the grand finale. And in the spectacles ofPompeii, the reader of Roman history must limit his imagination, norexpect to find those vast and wholesale exhibitions of magnificentslaughter with which a Nero or a Caligula regaled the inhabitants of theImperial City. The Roman shows, which absorbed the more celebratedgladiators and the chief proportion of foreign beasts, were indeed thevery reason why in the lesser towns of the empire the sports of theamphitheatre were comparatively humane and rare; and in this as inother respects, Pompeii was the miniature, the microcosm of Rome. Still, it was an awful and imposing spectacle, with which modern times have, happily, nothing to compare; a vast theatre, rising row upon row, andswarming with human beings, from fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, intent upon no fictitious representation--no tragedy of the stage--butthe actual victory or defeat, the exultant life or the bloody death, ofeach and all who entered the arena!

The two horsemen were now at either extremity of the lists (if so theymight be called), and at a given signal from Pansa the combatantsstarted simultaneously as in full collision, each advancing his roundbuckler, each poising on high his sturdy javelin; but just when withinthree paces of his opponent, the steed of Berbix suddenly halted, wheeled round, and, as Nobilior was borne rapidly by, his antagonistspurred upon him. The buckler of Nobilior, quickly and skillfullyextended, received a blow which otherwise would have been fatal. 

"Well done, Nobilior!" cried the prætor, giving the first vent to thepopular excitement. 

"Bravely struck, my Berbix!" answered Clodius from his seat. 

And the wild murmur, swelled by many a shout, echoed from side to side. 

The visors of both the horsemen were completely closed (like those ofthe knights in after times), but the head was nevertheless the greatpoint of assault; and Nobilior, now wheeling his charger with no lessadroitness than his opponent, directed his spear full on the helmet ofhis foe. Berbix raised his buckler to shield himself, and his quick-eyedantagonist, suddenly lowering his weapon, pierced him through thebreast. Berbix reeled and fell. 

"Nobilior! Nobilior!" shouted the populace. 

"I have lost ten sestertia, " said Clodius, between his teeth. 

"_Habet_!" (He has it) said Pansa deliberately. 

The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the signal of mercy:but as the attendants of the arena approached, they found the kindnesscame too late; the heart of the Gaul had been pierced, and his eyes wereset in death. It was his life's blood that flowed so darkly over thesand and sawdust of the arena. 

"It is a pity it was so soon over--there was little enough for one'strouble, " said the widow Fulvia. 

"Yes--I have no compassion for Berbix. Any one might have seen thatNobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the fatal hook to the body--theydrag him away to the spoliarium--they scatter new sand over the stage!Pansa regrets nothing more than that he is not rich enough to strew thearena with borax and cinnabar, as Nero used to do. "

"Well, if it has been a brief battle, it is quickly succeeded. See myhandsome Lydon on the arena--ay, and the net-bearer too, and theswordsmen! Oh, charming!"

There were now on the arena six combatants: Niger and his net, matchedagainst Sporus with his shield and his short broad-sword; Lydon andTetraides, naked save by a cincture round the waist, each armed onlywith a heavy Greek cestus; and two gladiators from Rome, clad incomplete steel, and evenly matched with immense bucklers andpointed swords. 

The initiatory contest between Lydon and Tetraides being less deadlythan that between the other combatants, no sooner had they advanced tothe middle of the arena than as by common consent the rest held back, tosee how that contest should be decided, and wait till fiercer weaponsmight replace the cestus ere they themselves commenced hostilities. Theystood leaning on their arms and apart from each other, gazing on theshow, which, if not bloody enough thoroughly to please the populace, they were still inclined to admire because its origin was of theirancestral Greece. 

No persons could at first glance have seemed less evenly matched thanthe two antagonists. Tetraides, though no taller than Lydon, weighedconsiderably more; the natural size of his muscles was increased, to theeyes of the vulgar, by masses of solid flesh; for, as it was a notionthat the contest of the cestus fared easiest with him who was plumpest, Tetraides had encouraged to the utmost his hereditary predisposition tothe portly. His shoulders were vast, and his lower limbs thick-set, double-jointed, and slightly curved outward, in that formation whichtakes so much from beauty to give so largely to strength. But Lydon, except that he was slender even almost to meagreness, was beautifullyand delicately proportioned; and the skillful might have perceived thatwith much less compass of muscle than his foe, that which he had wasmore seasoned--iron and compact. In proportion, too, as he wantedflesh, he was likely to possess activity; and a haughty smile on hisresolute face, which strongly contrasted with the solid heaviness of hisenemy's, gave assurance to those who beheld it and united their hope totheir pity; so that despite the disparity of their seeming strength, thecry of the multitude was nearly as loud for Lydon as for Tetraides. 

Whoever is acquainted with the modern prize-ring--whoever has witnessedthe heavy and disabling strokes which the human fist, skillfullydirected, hath the power to bestow--may easily understand how much thathappy facility would be increased by a band carried by thongs of leatherround the arm as high as the elbow, and terribly strengthened about theknuckles by a plate of iron, and sometimes a plummet of lead. Yet this, which was meant to increase, perhaps rather diminished, the interest ofthe fray; for it necessarily shortened its duration. A very few blows, successfully and scientifically planted, might suffice to bring thecontest to a close; and the battle did not, therefore, often allow fullscope for the energy, fortitude, and dogged perseverance that wetechnically style _pluck_, which not unusually wins the day againstsuperior science, and which heightens to so painful a delight theinterest in the battle and the sympathy for the brave. 

"Guard thyself!" growled Tetraides, moving nearer and nearer to his foe, who rather shifted round him than receded. 

Lydon did not answer, save by a scornful glance of his quick, vigilanteye. Tetraides struck--it was as the blow of a smith on a vise; Lydonsank suddenly on one knee--the blow passed over his head. Not soharmless was Lydon's retaliation; he quickly sprang to his feet, andaimed his cestus full on the broad chest of his antagonist. Tetraidesreeled--the populace shouted. 

"You are unlucky to-day, " said Lepidus to Clodius: "you have lost onebet; you will lose another. "

"By the gods! my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that is the case. Ihave no less than a hundred sestertia upon Tetraides. Ha, ha! see how herallies! That was a home stroke: he has cut open Lydon's shoulder. --ATetraides!--a Tetraides!"

"But Lydon is not disheartened. By Pollux! how well he keeps his temper!See how dextrously he avoids those hammer-like hands!--dodging now here, now there--circling round and round. Ah, poor Lydon! he has it again. "

"Three to one still on Tetraides! What say you, Lepidus?"

"Well--nine sestertia to three--be it so! What! again Lydon. Hestops--he gasps for breath. By the gods, he is down! No--he is again onhis legs. Brave Lydon! Tetraides is encouraged--he laughs loud--herushes on him. "

"Fool--success blinds him--he should be cautious. Lydon's eye is like alynx's!" said Clodius, between his teeth. 

"Ha, Clodius! saw you that? Your man totters! Another blow--he falls--hefalls!"

"Earth revives him then. He is once more up; but the blood rolls downhis face. "

"By the Thunderer! Lydon wins it. See how he presses on him! That blowon the temple would have crushed an ox! it _has_ crushed Tetraides. Hefalls again--he cannot move--_habet_!--_habet_!"

"_Habet_!" repeated Pansa. "Take them out and give them the armor andswords. " . .. 

While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus commenced, there was onein the loftier benches for whom it had assumed indeed a poignant, astifling interest. The aged father of Lydon, despite his Christianhorror of the spectacle, in his agonized anxiety for his son had notbeen able to resist being the spectator of his fate. Once amid a fiercecrowd of strangers, the lowest rabble of the populace, the old man saw, felt nothing but the form, the presence of his brave son! Not a soundhad escaped his lips when twice he had seen him fall to the earth; onlyhe had turned paler, and his limbs trembled. But he had uttered one lowcry when he saw him victorious; unconscious, alas! of the more fearfulbattle to which that victory was but a prelude. 

"My gallant boy!" said he, and wiped his eyes. 

"Is he thy son?" said a brawny fellow to the right of the Nazarene: "hehas fought well; let us see how he does by-and-by. Hark! he is to fightthe first victor. Now, old boy, pray the gods that that victor beneither of the Romans! nor, next to them, the giant Niger. "

The old man sat down again and covered his face. The fray for the momentwas indifferent to him--Lydon was not one of the combatants. Yet, yet, the thought flashed across him--the fray was indeed of deadlyinterest--the first who fell was to make way for Lydon! He started, andbent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to view theencounter. 

The first interest was attracted toward the combat of Niger with Sporus;for this spectacle of contest, from the fatal result which usuallyattended it, and from the great science it required in eitherantagonist, was always peculiarly inviting to the spectators. 

They stood at a considerable distance from each other. The singularhelmet which Sporus wore (the visor of which was down) concealed hisface; but the features of Niger attracted a fearful and universalinterest from their compressed and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stoodfor some moments, each eying each, until Sporus began slowly and withgreat caution to advance, holding his sword pointed, like a modernfencer's, at the breast of his foe. Niger retreated as his antagonistadvanced, gathering up his net with his right hand and never taking hissmall, glittering eye from the movements of the swordsman. Suddenly, when Sporus had approached nearly at arm's length, the retiarius threwhimself forward and cast his net. A quick inflection of body saved thegladiator from the deadly snare; he uttered a sharp cry of joy and rageand rushed upon Niger; but Niger had already drawn in his net, thrown itacross his shoulders, and now fled around the lists with a swiftnesswhich the _secutor_[6] in vain endeavored to equal. The people laughedand shouted aloud to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-shoulderedgladiator to overtake the flying giant; when at that moment theirattention was turned from these to the two Roman combatants. 

[Footnote 6: So called from the office of that tribe of gladiators in_following_ the foe the moment the net was cast, in order to smite himere he could have time to re-arrange it. ]

They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at the distance ofmodern fencers from each other; but the extreme caution which bothevinced at first had prevented any warmth of engagement, and allowed thespectators full leisure to interest themselves in the battle betweenSporus and his foe. But the Romans were now heated into full and fierceencounter: they pushed--returned--advanced on--retreated from eachother, with all that careful yet scarcely perceptible caution whichcharacterizes men well experienced and equally matched. But at thismoment Eumolpus, the older gladiator, by that dextrous back-stroke whichwas considered in the arena so difficult to avoid, had wounded Nepimusin the side. The people shouted; Lepidus turned pale. 

"Ho!" said Clodius, "the game is nearly over. If Eumolpus rights now thequiet fight, the other will gradually bleed himself away. "

"But, thank the gods! he does _not_ fight the backward fight. See!--hepresses hard upon Nepimus. By Mars! but Nepimus had him there! thehelmet rang again!--Clodius, I shall win!"

"Why do I ever bet but at the dice?" groaned Clodius to himself;--"orwhy cannot one cog a gladiator?"

"A Sporus!--a Sporus!" shouted the populace, as Niger, now havingsuddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again unsuccessfully. Hehad not retreated this time with sufficient agility--the sword of Sporushad inflicted a severe wound upon his right leg; and, incapacitated tofly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsman. His great height andlength of arm still continued, however, to give him no despicableadvantages; and steadily keeping his trident at the front of his foe, herepelled him successfully for several minutes. 

Sporus now tried by great rapidity of evolution to get round hisantagonist, who necessarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing helost his caution--he advanced too near to the giant--raised his arm tostrike, and received the three points of the fatal spear full in hisbreast! He sank on his knee. In a moment more the deadly net was castover him, --he struggled against its meshes in vain; again--again--againhe writhed mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident--his bloodflowed fast through the net and redly over the sand. He lowered his armsin acknowledgment of defeat. 

The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning on his spear, looked to the audience for their judgment. Slowly, too, at the samemoment, the vanquished gladiator rolled his dim and despairing eyesaround the theatre. From row to row, from bench to bench, there glaredupon him but merciless and unpitying eyes. 

Hushed was the roar--the murmur! The silence was dread, for in it was nosympathy; not a hand--no, not even a woman's hand--gave the signal ofcharity and life! Sporus had never been popular in the arena; and latelythe interest of the combat had been excited on behalf of the woundedNiger. The people were warmed into blood--the _mimic_ fight had ceasedto charm; the interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice and thethirst of death!

The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed; he uttered no prayer--nogroan. The people gave the signal of death! In dogged but agonizedsubmission he bent his neck to receive the fatal stroke. And now, as thespear of the retiarius was not a weapon to inflict instant and certaindeath, there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandishing ashort, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed beneath itsvisor. With slow and measured step this dismal headsman approached thegladiator, still kneeling--laid the left hand on his humbled crest--drewthe edge of the blade across his neck--turned round to the assembly, lest, in the last moment, remorse should come upon them; the dreadsignal continued the same; the blade glittered brightly in theair--fell--and the gladiator rolled upon the sand: his limbsquivered--were still--he was a corpse. 

His body was dragged at once from the arena through the gate of death, and thrown into the gloomy den termed technically the "spoliarium. " Andere it had well reached that destination the strife between theremaining combatants was decided. The sword of Eumolpus had inflictedthe death-wound upon the less experienced combatant. A new victim wasadded to the receptacle of the slain. 

Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a universal movement; thepeople breathed more freely and settled themselves in their seats. Agrateful shower was cast over every row from the concealed conduits. Incool and luxurious pleasure they talked over the late spectacle ofblood. Eumolpus removed his helmet and wiped his brows; his close-curledhair and short beard, his noble Roman features and bright dark eye, attracted the general admiration. He was fresh, unwounded, unfatigued. 

The ædile paused, and proclaimed aloud that as Niger's wound disabledhim from again entering the arena, Lydon was to be the successor to theslaughtered Nepimus and the new combatant of Eumolpus. 

"Yet, Lydon, " added he, "if thou wouldst decline the combat with one sobrave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty to do so. Eumolpus is notthe antagonist that was originally decreed for thee. Thou knowest besthow far thou canst cope with him. If thou failest, thy doom is honorabledeath; if thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double thestipulated prize. "

The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists; he gazed around;high above he beheld the pale face, the straining eyes of his father. He turned away irresolute for a moment. No! the conquest of the cestuswas not sufficient--he had not yet won the prize of victory--his fatherwas still a slave!

"Noble ædile!" he replied, in a firm and deep tone, "I shrink not fromthis combat. For the honor of Pompeii, I demand that one trained by itslong-celebrated lanista shall do battle with this Roman. "

The people shouted louder than before. 

"Four to one against Lydon!" said Clodius to Lepidus. 

"I would not take twenty to one! Why, Eumolpus is a very Achilles, andthis poor fellow is but a tyro!"

Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon: he smiled; yet the smile wasfollowed by a slight and scarce audible sigh--a touch of compassionateemotion, which custom conquered the moment the heart acknowledged it. 

And now both, clad in complete armor, the sword drawn, the visor closed, the two last combatants of the arena (ere man, at least, was matchedwith beast) stood opposed to each other. 

It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the prætor byone of the attendants of the arena; he removed the cincture--glancedover it for a moment--his countenance betrayed surprise andembarrassment. He re-read the letter, and then muttering, --"Tush! it isimpossible!--the man must be drunk, even in the morning, to dream ofsuch follies!"--threw it carelessly aside and gravely settled himselfonce more in the attitude of attention to the sports. 

The interest of the public was wound up very high. Eumolpus had at firstwon their favor; but the gallantry of Lydon, and his well-timed allusionto the honor of the Pompeiian lanista, had afterward given the latterthe preference in their eyes. 

"Holla, old fellow!" said Medon's neighbor to him. "Your son is hardlymatched; but never fear, the editor will not permit him to be slain--no, nor the people neither: he has behaved too bravely for that. Ha! thatwas a home thrust!--well averted by Pollux! At him again, Lydon!--theystop to breathe! What art thou muttering, old boy?"

"Prayers!" answered Medon, with a more calm and hopeful mien than he hadyet maintained. 

"Prayers!--trifles! The time for gods to carry a man away in a cloud isgone now. Ha! Jupiter, what a blow! Thy side--thy side!--take care ofthy side, Lydon!"

There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly. A fierce blowfrom Eumolpus, full on the crest, had brought Lydon to his knee. 

"_Habet_!--he has it!" cried a shrill female voice; "he has it!"

It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated thesacrifice of some criminal to the beasts. 

"Be silent, child!" said the wife of Pansa, haughtily. "_Non habet!_--heis _not_ wounded!"

"I wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon, " muttered the girl. 

Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself with great skill andvalor, began to give way before the vigorous assaults of the practicedRoman; his arm grew tired, his eye dizzy, he breathed hard andpainfully. The combatants paused again for breath. 

"Young man, " said Eumolpus, in a low voice, "desist; I will wound theeslightly--then lower thy arm; thou hast propitiated the editor and themob--thou wilt be honorably saved!"

"And my father still enslaved!" groaned Lydon to himself. "No! death orhis freedom. "

At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being equal to theendurance of the Roman, everything depended on a sudden and desperateeffort, he threw himself fiercely on Eumolpus; the Roman warilyretreated--Lydon thrust again--Eumolpus drew himself aside--the swordgrazed his cuirass--Lydon's breast was exposed--the Roman plunged hissword through the joints of the armor, not meaning however to inflict adeep wound; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, fell right on thepoint; it passed through and through, even to the back. Eumolpus drewforth his blade; Lydon still made an effort to regain his balance--hissword left his grasp--he struck mechanically at the gladiator with hisnaked hand and fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, ædile andassembly made the signal of mercy; the officers of the arena approached, they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He still breathed; his eyesrolled fiercely on his foe; the savageness he had acquired in hiscalling glared from his gaze and lowered upon the brow, darkened alreadywith the shades of death; then with a convulsive groan, with ahalf-start, he lifted his eyes above. They rested not on the face of theædile nor on the pitying brows of the relenting judges. He saw them not;they were as if the vast space was desolate and bare; one paleagonizing face alone was all he recognized--one cry of a broken heartwas all that, amid the murmurs and the shouts of the populace, reachedhis ear. The ferocity vanished from his brow; a soft, tender expressionof sanctifying but despairing filial love played over hisfeatures--played--waned--darkened! His face suddenly became locked andrigid, resuming its former fierceness. He fell upon the earth. 

"Look to him, " said the ædile; "he has done his duty!"

The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium. 

"A true type of glory, and of its fate!" murmured Arbaces to himself;and his eye, glancing around the amphitheatre, betrayed so much ofdisdain and scorn that whoever encountered it felt his breath suddenlyarrested, and his emotions frozen into one sensation of abasement andof awe. 

Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre; the attendantssprinkled fresh sand over the arena. 

"Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian, " said the ædile. 

And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest and intense (yetstrange to say not unpleasing) terror lay like a mighty and awful dreamover the assembly. 

 * * * * *

The door swung gratingly back--the gleam of spears shot along the wall. 

"Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come, " said a loud and clear voice;"the lion awaits thee. "

"I am ready, " said the Athenian. "Brother and co-mate, one last embrace!Bless me--and farewell!"

The Christian opened his arms; he clasped the young heathen to hisbreast; he kissed his forehead and cheek; he sobbed aloud; his tearsflowed fast and hot over the features of his new friend. 

"Oh! could I have converted thee, I had not wept. Oh that I might say tothee, 'We two shall sup this night in Paradise!'"

"It may be so yet, " answered the Greek with a tremulous voice, "Theywhom death parts now may yet meet beyond the grave; on the earth--oh!the beautiful, the beloved earth, farewell for ever! Worthy officer, Iattend you. "

Glaucus tore himself away; and when he came forth into the air, itsbreath, which though sunless was hot and arid, smote witheringly uponhim. His frame, not yet restored from the effects of the deadlydraught, shrank and trembled. The officers supported him. 

"Courage!" said one; "thou art young, active, well knit. They give theea weapon! despair not, and thou mayst yet conquer. "

Glaucus did not reply; but ashamed of his infirmity, he made a desperateand convulsive effort and regained the firmness of his nerves. Theyanointed his body, completely naked save by a cincture round the loins, placed the stilus (vain weapon!) in his hand, and led him intothe arena. 

And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousandsupon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of fear, all fear itself, was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over thepaleness of his features; he towered aloft to the full of his gloriousstature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form; in his intent butunfrowning brow; in the high disdain and in the indomitable soul whichbreathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, his lip, hiseye, --he seemed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, of the valorof his land; of the divinity of its worship: at once a hero and a god!

The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime which had greeted hisentrance died into the silence of involuntary admiration andhalf-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, thatseemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gazeof the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object inthe centre of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion. 

"By Venus, how warm it is!" said Fulvia, "yet there is no sun. Wouldthat those stupid sailors could have fastened up that gap inthe awning!"

"Oh, it is warm indeed. I turn sick--I faint!" said the wife of Pansa;even her experienced stoicism giving way at the struggle about totake place. 

The lion had been kept without food for twenty-four hours, and theanimal had, during the whole morning, testified a singular and restlessuneasiness, which the keeper had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yetits bearing seemed rather that of fear than of rage; its roar waspainful and distressed; it hung its head--snuffed the air through thebars--then lay down--started again--and again uttered its wild andfar-resounding cries. And now in its den it lay utterly dumb and mute, with distended nostrils forced hard against the grating, and disturbing, with a heaving breath, the sand below on the arena. 

The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiouslyaround--hesitated--delayed; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he gavethe sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed thegrating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar ofrelease. The keeper hastily retreated through the grated passage leadingfrom the arena, and left the lord of the forest--and his prey. 

Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture atthe expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raisedon high, in the faint hope that _one_ well-directed thrust (for he knewthat he should have time but for _one_) might penetrate through the eyeto the brain of his grim foe. 

But to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed not evenaware of the presence of the criminal. 

At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in the arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impatient signs, then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half-speedit circled round and round the space, turning its vast head from side toside with an anxious and perturbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenueof escape; once or twice it endeavored to leap up the parapet thatdivided it from the audience, and on falling, uttered rather a baffledhowl than its deep-toned and kingly roar. It evinced no sign either ofwrath or hunger; its tail drooped along the sand, instead of lashing itsgaunt sides; and its eye, though it wandered at times to Glaucus, rolledagain listlessly from him. At length, as if tired of attempting toescape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and once more laid itselfdown to rest. 

The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion soon grewconverted into resentment at its cowardice; and the populace alreadymerged their pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry compassion fortheir own disappointment. 

The editor called to the keeper:--"How is this? Take the goad, prick himforth, and then close the door of the den. "

As the keeper, with some fear but more astonishment, was preparing toobey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; therewas a confusion, a bustle--voices of remonstrance suddenly breakingforth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned inwonder at the interruption, toward the quarter of the disturbance; thecrowd gave way, and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair disheveled--breathless--heated--half exhausted. He cast hiseyes hastily round the ring. "Remove the Athenian!" he cried; "haste--heis innocent! Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian--HE is the murderer ofApæcides!"

[Illustration: _IN THE ARENA, _ Photogravure from a Drawing by FrankKirchbach. 

"Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture atthe expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raisedon high, in the faint hope that _one_ well-directed thrust (for he knewthat he should have time but for _one_) might penetrate through the eyeto the brain of his grim foe. But to the unutterable astonishment ofall, the beast seemed not even aware of the presence of the criminal. " ]

[Illustration: Untitled]

"Art thou mad, O Sallust!" said the prætor, rising from his seat. "Whatmeans this raving?"

"Remove the Athenian!--Quick! or his blood be on your head. Prætor, delay, and you answer with your own life to the Emperor! I bring with methe eye-witness to the death of the priest Apæcides. Room there, standback, give way. People of Pompeii, fix every eye upon Arbaces; there hesits! Room there for the priest Calenus!"

Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death, his facefallen, his eyes dull as a vulture's, his broad frame gaunt as askeleton, Calenus was supported into the very row in which Arbaces sat. His releasers had given him sparingly of food; but the chief sustenancethat nerved his feeble limbs was revenge!

"The priest Calenus--Calenus!" cried the mob. "It is he? No--it is adead man!"

"It is the priest Calenus, " said the prætor, gravely. "What hast thou tosay?"

"Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apæcides, the priest of Isis; theseeyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he plungedme--it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine--that thegods have raised me to proclaim his crime! Release the Athenian--_he_ isinnocent!"

"It is for this, then, that the lion spared him, A miracle! a miracle!"cried Pansa. 

"A miracle! a miracle!" shouted the people; "remove theAthenian--_Arbaces to the lion_. "

And that shout echoed from hill to vale--from coast to sea--_Arbaces tothe lion_. 

"Officers, remove the accused Glaucus--remove, but guard him yet, " saidthe prætor. "The gods lavish their wonders upon this day. "

As the prætor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy: a femalevoice, a child's voice; and it was of joy! It rang through the heart ofthe assembly with electric force; it was touching, it was holy, thatchild's voice. And the populace echoed it back with sympathizingcongratulation. 

"Silence!" said the grave prætor; "who is there?"

"The blind girl--Nydia, " answered Sallust; "it is her hand that hasraised Calenus from the grave, and delivered Glaucus from the lion. "

"Of this hereafter, " said the prætor. "Calenus, priest of Isis, thouaccusest Arbaces of the murder of Apæcides?"

"I do!"

"Thou didst behold the deed?"

"Prætor--with these eyes--"

"Enough at present--the details must be reserved for more suiting timeand place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou hearest the charge against thee--thouhast not yet spoken--what hast thou to say?"

The gaze of the crowd had been long riveted on Arbaces; but not untilthe confusion which he had betrayed at the first charge of Sallust andthe entrance of Calenus had subsided. At the shout, "Arbaces to thelion!" he had indeed trembled, and the dark bronze of his cheek hadtaken a paler hue. But he had soon recovered his haughtiness andself-control. Proudly he returned the angry glare of the countless eyesaround him; and replying now to the question of the prætor, he said, inthat accent so peculiarly tranquil and commanding which characterizedhis tones:--

"Prætor, this charge is so mad that it scarcely deserves reply. My firstaccuser is the noble Sallust--the most intimate friend of Glaucus! Mysecond is a priest: I revere his garb and calling--but, people ofPompeii! ye know somewhat of the character of Calenus--he is griping andgold-thirsty to a proverb; the witness of such men is to be bought!Prætor, I am innocent!"

"Sallust, " said the magistrate, "where found you Calenus?"

"In the dungeons of Arbaces. "

"Egyptian, " said the prætor, frowning, "thou didst, then, dare toimprison a priest of the gods--and wherefore?"

[Illustration: NYDIA The blind flower-girl of Bulwer's Last Days ofPompeii. Photogravure from a Painting by C. Von Bodenhausen. ]

[Illustration]

"Hear me, " answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with agitation visiblein his face. "This man came to threaten that he would make against methe charge he has now made, unless I would purchase his silence withhalf my fortune; I remonstrated--in vain. Peace there--let not thepriest interrupt me! Noble prætor--and ye, O people! I was a stranger inthe land--I knew myself innocent of crime--but the witness of apriest against me might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I decoyed himto the cell whence he has been released, on pretense that it was thecoffer-house of my gold. I resolved to detain him there until the fateof the true criminal was sealed and his threats could avail no longer;but I meant no worse. I may have erred--but who among ye will notacknowledge the equity of self-preservation? Were I guilty, why was thewitness of this priest silent at the trial?--_then_ I had not detainedor concealed him. Why did he not proclaim my guilt when I proclaimedthat of Glaucus? Prætor, this needs an answer. For the rest, I throwmyself on your laws. I demand their protection. Remove hence the accusedand the accuser. I will willingly meet, and cheerfully abide by thedecision of, the legitimate tribunal. This is no place forfurther parley. "

"He says right. " said the prætor. "Ho! guards--remove Arbaces--guardCalenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your accusation. Let thesports be resumed. "

"What!" cried Calenus, turning round to the people, "shall Isis be thuscontemned? Shall the blood of Apæcides yet cry for vengeance? Shalljustice be delayed now, that it may be frustrated hereafter? Shall thelion be cheated of his lawful prey? A god! a god!--I feel the god rushto my lips! _To the lion--to the lion with Arbaces_!"

His exhausted frame could support no longer the ferocious malice of thepriest; he sank on the ground in strong convulsions; the foam gatheredto his mouth; he was as a man, indeed, whom a supernatural power hadentered! The people saw, and shuddered. 

"It is a god that inspires the holy man! _To the lion with theEgyptian_!"

With that cry up sprang, on moved, thousands upon thousands. They rushedfrom the heights; they poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. Invain did the ædile command; in vain did the prætor lift his voice andproclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage by theexhibition of blood; they thirsted for more; their superstition wasaided by their ferocity. Aroused, inflamed by the spectacle of theirvictims, they forgot the authority of their rulers. It was one of thosedread popular convulsions common to crowds wholly ignorant, half freeand half servile, and which the peculiar constitution of the Romanprovinces so frequently exhibited. The power of the prætor was a reedbeneath the whirlwind; still, at his word the guards had drawnthemselves along the lower benches, on which the upper classes satseparate from the vulgar. They made but a feeble barrier; the waves ofthe human sea halted for a moment, to enable Arbaces to count the exactmoment of his doom! In despair, and in a terror which beat down evenpride, he glanced his eye over the rolling and rushing crowd; when, right above them, through the wide chasm which had been left in thevelaria, he beheld a strange and awful apparition; he beheld, and hiscraft restored his courage!

He stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal featuresthere came an expression, of unutterable solemnity and command. 

"Behold!" he shouted with a voice of thunder, which stilled the roar ofthe crowd: "behold how the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of theavenging Orcus burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!"

The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheldwith dismay a vast vapor shooting from the summit of Vesuvius in theform of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness--the branchesfire!--a fire that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazedterrifically forth with intolerable glare!

There was a dead, heart-sunken silence; through which there suddenlybroke the roar of the lion, which was echoed back from within thebuilding by the sharper and fiercer yells of its fellow-beast. Dreadseers were they of the Burden of the Atmosphere, and wild prophets ofthe wrath to come!

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men staredat each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shakeunder their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled; and beyond in thedistance they heard the crash of falling roofs; an instant more, and themountain cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark and rapid, like atorrent; at the same time it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashesmixed with vast fragments of burning stone! over the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre itself; far and wide, with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful shower!

No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces; safety forthemselves was their sole thought. Each turned to fly--each dashing, pressing, crushing against the other. Trampling recklessly over thefallen, amid groans and oaths and prayers and sudden shrieks, theenormous crowd vomited itself forth through the numerous passages. Whither should they fly? Some, anticipating a second earthquake, hastened to their homes to load themselves with their more costly goodsand escape while it was yet time; others, dreading the showers of ashesthat now fell fast, torrent upon torrent, over the streets, rushed underthe roofs of the nearest houses, or temples, or sheds--shelter of anykind--for protection from the terrors of the open air. But darker, andlarger, and mightier, spread the cloud above them. It was a sudden andmore ghastly Night rushing upon the realm of Noon!

KENELM AND LILY

From 'Kenelm Chillingly'

The children have come, --some thirty of them, pretty as English childrengenerally are, happy in the joy of the summer sunshine, and the flowerlawns, and the feast under cover of an awning suspended betweenchestnut-trees and carpeted with sward. 

No doubt Kenelm held his own at the banquet, and did his best toincrease the general gayety, for whenever he spoke the children listenedeagerly, and when he had done they laughed mirthfully. 

"The fair face I promised you, " whispered Mrs. Braefield, "is not hereyet. I have a little note from the young lady to say that Mrs. Camerondoes not feel very well this morning, but hopes to recover sufficientlyto come later in the afternoon. "

"And pray who is Mrs. Cameron?"

"Ah! I forgot that you are a stranger to the place. Mrs. Cameron is theaunt with whom Lily resides. Is it not a pretty name, Lily?"

"Very! emblematic of a spinster that does not spin, with a white headand a thin stalk. "

"Then the name belies my Lily; as you will see. "

The children now finished their feast and betook themselves to dancing, in an alley smoothed for a croquet-ground and to the sound of a violinplayed by the old grandfather of one of the party. While Mrs. Braefieldwas busying herself with forming the dance, Kenelm seized the occasionto escape from a young nymph of the age of twelve, who had sat next tohim at the banquet and taken so great a fancy to him that he began tofear she would vow never to forsake his side, --and stole awayundetected. 

There are times when the mirth of others only saddens us, especially themirth of children with high spirits, that jar on our own quiet mood. Gliding through a dense shrubbery, in which, though the lilacs werefaded, the laburnum still retained here and there the waning gold of itsclusters, Kenelm came into a recess which bounded his steps and invitedhim to repose. It was a circle, so formed artificially by slighttrellises, to which clung parasite roses heavy with leaves and flowers. In the midst played a tiny fountain with a silvery murmuring sound; atthe background, dominating the place, rose the crests of stately trees, on which the sunlight shimmered, but which rampired out all horizonbeyond. Even as in life do the great dominant passions--love, ambition, desire of power, or gold, or fame, or knowledge--form the proudbackground to the brief-lived flowerets of our youth, lift our eyesbeyond the smile of their bloom, catch the glint of a loftier sunbeam, and yet--and yet--exclude our sight from the lengths and the widths ofthe space which extends behind and beyond them. 

Kenelm threw himself on the turf beside the fountain. From afar came thewhoop and the laugh of the children in their sports or their dance. Atthe distance their joy did not sadden him--he marveled why; and thus, inmusing reverie, thought to explain the why to himself. 

"The poet, " so ran his lazy thinking, "has told us that 'distance lendsenchantment to the view, ' and thus compares to the charm of distance theillusion of hope. But the poet narrows the scope of his ownillustration. Distance lends enchantment to the ear as well as to thesight; nor to these bodily senses alone. Memory, no less than hope, owesits charm to 'the far away. '

"I cannot imagine myself again a child when I am in the midst of yonnoisy children. But as their noise reaches me here, subdued andmellowed; and knowing, thank Heaven! that the urchins are not withinreach of me, I could readily dream myself back into childhood and intosympathy with the lost playfields of school. 

"So surely it must be with grief: how different the terrible agony for abeloved one just gone from earth, to the soft regret for one whodisappeared into heaven years ago! So with the art of poetry: howimperatively, when it deals with the great emotions of tragedy, it mustremove the actors from us, in proportion as the emotions are to elevate, and the tragedy is to please us by the tears it draws! Imagine our shockif a poet were to place on the stage some wise gentleman with whom wedined yesterday, and who was discovered to have killed his father andmarried his mother. But when Oedipus commits those unhappy mistakesnobody is shocked. Oxford in the nineteenth century is a long way offfrom Thebes three thousand or four thousand years ago. 

"And, " continued Kenelm, plunging deeper into the maze of metaphysicalcriticism, "even where the poet deals with persons and things close uponour daily sight--if he would give them poetic charm he must resort to asort of moral or psychological distance; the nearer they are to us inexternal circumstance, the farther they must be in some internalpeculiarities. Werter and Clarissa Harlowe are described ascontemporaries of their artistic creation, and with the minutest detailsof an apparent realism; yet they are at once removed from our dailylives by their idiosyncrasies and their fates. We know that while Werterand Clarissa are so near to us in much that we sympathize with them asfriends and kinsfolk, they are yet as much remote from us in the poeticand idealized side of their natures as if they belonged to the age ofHomer; and this it is that invests with charm the very pain which theirfate inflicts on us. Thus, I suppose, it must be in love. If the love wefeel is to have the glamor of poetry, it must be love for some onemorally at a distance from our ordinary habitual selves; in short, differing from us in attributes which, however near we draw to thepossessor, we can never approach, never blend, in attributes of our own;so that there is something in the loved one that always remains anideal--a mystery--'a sun-bright summit mingling with the sky!'" . .. 

From this state, half comatose, half unconscious, Kenelm was rousedslowly, reluctantly. Something struck softly on his cheek--again alittle less softly; he opened his eyes--they fell first upon two tinyrosebuds, which, on striking his face, had fallen on his breast; andthen looking up, he saw before him, in an opening of the trellisedcircle, a female child's laughing face. Her hand was still uplifted, charged with another rosebud; but behind the child's figure, lookingover her shoulder and holding back the menacing arm, was a face asinnocent but lovelier far--the face of a girl in her first youth, framedround with the blossoms that festooned the trellis. How the face becamethe flowers! It seemed the fairy spirit of them. 

Kenelm started and rose to his feet. The child, the one whom he had soungallantly escaped from, ran towards him through a wicket in thecircle. Her companion disappeared. 

"Is it you?" said Kenelm to the child--"you who pelted me so cruelly?Ungrateful creature! Did I not give you the best strawberries in thedish, and all my own cream?"

"But why did you run away and hide yourself when you ought to be dancingwith me?" replied the young lady, evading, with the instinct of her sex, all answer to the reproach she had deserved. 

"I did not run away; and it is clear that I did not mean to hide myself, since you so easily found me out. But who was the young lady with you? Isuspect she pelted me too, for _she_ seems to have run away tohide herself. "

"No, she did not pelt you; she wanted to stop me, and you would have hadanother rosebud--oh, so much bigger!--if she had not held back my arm. Don't you know her--don't you know Lily?"

"No; so that is Lily? You shall introduce me to her. "

By this time they had passed out of the circle through the little wicketopposite the path by which Kenelm had entered, and opening at once onthe lawn. Here at some distance the children were grouped; some reclinedon the grass, some walking to and fro, in the interval of the dance. .. . 

Before he had reached the place, Mrs. Braefield met him. 

"Lily is come!"

"I know it--I have seen her. "

"Is not she beautiful?"

"I must see more of her if I am to answer critically; but before youintroduce me, may I be permitted to ask who and what is Lily?"

Mrs. Braefield paused a moment before she answered, and yet the answerwas brief enough not to need much consideration She is a Miss Mordaunt, an orphan; and as I before told you, resides with her aunt, Mrs. Cameron, a widow. They have the prettiest cottage you ever saw on thebanks of the river, or rather rivulet, about a mile from this place. Mrs. Cameron is a very good, simple-hearted woman. As to Lily, I canpraise her beauty only with safe conscience, for as yet she is a merechild--her mind quite unformed. "

"Did you ever meet any man, much less any woman, whose mind was formed?"muttered Kenelm. "I am sure mine is not, and never will be onthis earth. "

Mrs. Braefield did not hear this low-voiced observation. She was lookingabout for Lily; and perceiving her at last as the children whosurrounded her were dispersing to renew the dance, she took Kenelm'sarm, led him to the young lady, and a formal introduction took place. 

Formal as it could be on those sunlit swards, amidst the joy of summerand the laugh of children. In such scene and such circumstance, formality does not last long. I know not how it was, but in a very fewminutes Kenelm and Lily had ceased to be strangers to each other. Theyfound themselves seated apart from the rest of the merry-makers, on thebank shadowed by lime-trees; the man listening with downcast eyes, thegirl with mobile shifting glances, now on earth, now on heaven, andtalking freely, gayly--like the babble of a happy stream, with a silverydulcet voice and a sparkle of rippling smiles. 

No doubt this is a reversal of the formalities of well-bred life andconventional narrating thereof. According to them, no doubt, it is forthe man to talk and the maid to listen; but I state the facts as theywere, honestly. And Lily knew no more of the formalities of drawing-roomlife than a skylark fresh from its nest knows of the song-teacher andthe cage. She was still so much of a child. Mrs. Braefield wasright--her mind was still so unformed. 

What she did talk about in that first talk between them that could makethe meditative Kenelm listen so mutely, so intently, I know not; atleast I could not jot it down on paper. I fear it was very egotistical, as the talk of children generally is--about herself and her aunt and herhome and her friends--all her friends seemed children like herself, though younger--Clemmy the chief of them. Clemmy was the one who hadtaken a fancy to Kenelm. And amidst all the ingenuous prattle there cameflashes of a quick intellect, a lively fancy--nay, even a poetry ofexpression or of sentiment. It might be the talk of a child, butcertainly not of a silly child. 

But as soon as the dance was over, the little ones again gathered roundLily. Evidently she was the prime favorite of them all; and as hercompanions had now become tired of dancing, new sports were proposed, and Lily was carried off to "Prisoner's Base. "

"I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Chillingly, " said afrank, pleasant voice; and a well-dressed, good-looking man held out hishand to Kenelm. 

"My husband, " said Mrs. Braefield with a certain pride in her look. 

Kenelm responded cordially to the civilities of the master of the house, who had just returned from his city office, and left all its caresbehind him. You had only to look at him to see that he was prosperousand deserved to be so. There were in his countenance the signs of strongsense, of good-humor--above all, of an active, energetic temperament. Aman of broad smooth forehead, keen hazel eyes, firm lips and jaw; with ahappy contentment in himself, his house, the world in general, mantlingover his genial smile, and outspoken in the metallic ring of his voice. 

"You will stay and dine with us, of course, " said Mr. Braefield; "andunless you want very much to be in town to-night, I hope you will take abed here. "

Kenelm hesitated. 

"Do stay at least till to-morrow, " said Mrs. Braefield. Kenelm hesitatedstill; and while hesitating, his eyes rested on Lily, leaning on the armof a middle-aged lady, and approaching the hostess--evidently totake leave. 

"I cannot resist so tempting an invitation, " said Kenelm, and he fellback a little behind Lily and her companion. 

"Thank you much for so pleasant a day, " said Mrs. Cameron to thehostess. "Lily has enjoyed herself extremely. I only regret we could notcome earlier. "

"If you are walking home, " said Mr. Braefield, "let me accompany you. Iwant to speak to your gardener about his heart's-ease--it is much finerthan mine. "

"If so, " said Kenelm to Lily, "may I come too? Of all flowers that grow, heart's-ease is the one I most prize. "

A few minutes afterward Kenelm was walking by the side of Lily along thebanks of a little stream tributary to the Thames; Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Braefield in advance, for the path only held two abreast. 

Suddenly Lily left his side, allured by a rare butterfly--I think it iscalled the Emperor of Morocco--that was sunning its yellow wings upon agroup of wild reeds. She succeeded in capturing this wanderer in herstraw hat, over which she drew her sun-veil. After this notable captureshe returned demurely to Kenelm's side. 

"Do you collect insects?" said that philosopher, as much surprised as itwas his nature to be at anything. 

"Only butterflies, " answered Lily; "they are not insects, you know; theyare souls. "

"Emblems of souls, you mean--at least so the Greeks prettily representedthem to be. "

"No, real souls--the souls of infants that die in their cradlesunbaptized; and if they are taken care of, and not eaten by birds, andlive a year, then they pass into fairies. "

"It is a very poetical idea, Miss Mordaunt, and founded on evidencequite as rational as other assertions of the metamorphosis of onecreature into another. Perhaps you can do what the philosopherscannot--tell me how you learned a new idea to be an incontestable fact?"

"I don't know, " replied Lily, looking very much puzzled: "perhaps Ilearned it in a book, or perhaps I dreamed it. "

"You could not make a wiser answer if you were a philosopher. But youtalk of taking care of butterflies: how do you do that? Do you impalethem on pins stuck into a glass case?"

"Impale them! How can you talk so cruelly? You deserve to be pinched bythe fairies. "

"I am afraid, " thought Kenelm, compassionately, "that my companion hasno mind to be formed; what is euphoniously called 'an innocent. '"

He shook his head and remained silent. 

Lily resumed--"I will show you my collection when we get home--they seemso happy. I am sure there are some of them who know me--they will feedfrom my hand. I have only had one die since I began to collect themlast summer. "

"Then you have kept them a year; they ought to have turned intofairies. "

"I suppose many of them have. Of course I let out all those that hadbeen with me twelve months--they don't turn to fairies in the cage, youknow. Now I have only those I caught this year, or last autumn; theprettiest don't appear till the autumn. "

The girl here bent her uncovered head over the straw hat, her tressesshadowing it, and uttered loving words to the prisoner. Then again shelooked up and around her, and abruptly stopped and exclaimed:--

"How can people live in towns--how can people say they are ever dull inthe country? Look, " she continued, gravely and earnestly--"look at thattall pine-tree, with its long branch sweeping over the water; see how, as the breeze catches it, it changes its shadow, and how the shadowchanges the play of the sunlight on the brook:--

 'Wave your tops, ye pines; With every plant, in sign of worship wave. '

What an interchange of music there must be between Nature and a poet!"

Kenelm was startled. This "an innocent!"--this a girl who had no mind tobe formed! In that presence he could not be cynical; could not speak ofNature as a mechanism, a lying humbug, as he had done to the man poet. He replied gravely:--

"The Creator has gifted the whole universe with language, but few arethe hearts that can interpret it. Happy those to whom it is no foreigntongue, acquired imperfectly with care and pain, but rather a nativelanguage, learned unconsciously from the lips of the great mother. Tothem the butterfly's wing may well buoy into heaven a fairy's soul!"

When he had thus said, Lily turned, and for the first time attentivelylooked into his dark soft eyes; then instinctively she laid her lighthand on his arm, and said in a low voice, "Talk on--talk thus; I like tohear you. "

But Kenelm did not talk on. They had now arrived at the garden-gate ofMrs. Cameron's cottage, and the elder persons in advance paused at thegate and walked with them to the house. 

End of Volume VI.