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 [Illustration: GEOFFREY CHAUCER From a portrait in Occleve's Poems in the British Museum]

Stories of Authors

_British and American_

BYEDWIN WATTS CHUBBProfessor of English Literaturein the Ohio University. 

_ILLUSTRATED_

New YorkSTURGIS & WALTONCOMPANY1910

_All rights reserved_

Copyright, 1910BY STURGIS & WALTON COMPANY

Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1910

Reprinted May, 1910

PREFACE

The purpose of this book is to help in making literature and themakers of literature alive and interesting. Few schools have librariesincluding the bound volumes of the magazines of the past quarter of acentury. But what an aid such a collection is to the appreciation ofliterature! The dignified and abbreviated history of literature cannotindulge in such delightful gossip as is found in the freer essay andfuller biography. To show the excellences of the art and thelovableness of the artist rather than to hunt for defects is the dutyand the delight of the teacher of literature. This does not mean, however, that one dare never see the weaker side, the foibles andeccentricities of the man of genius. 

I like Macaulay none the less because his cock-sureness and loquacitycame dangerously near to making him a bore; Dr. Johnson grows ininterest when I learn that he found it a continual and almost hopelessstruggle to become an early riser, that he feared death, and coulddrink tea as long as the housekeeper could brew it; that Tennyson wasa slave to tobacco and acted like a yokel when the newly-weddedMüllers entertained him at breakfast does not detract from myenjoyment of the exquisite pathos of _Tears, Idle Tears_; that themarriage of the Brownings was a runaway romance is a whole commentaryof explanation when I read their poems of romantic love; thatLongfellow is said to have declined an invitation to the Adirondacksbecause he was told that Emerson was to carry a gun is really far moredelightful, and I may add valuable, information than to know the exactdate of the birth of either. Of knowledge such as this is the kingdomof literary interest. It is not well to place our literary lights upona pedestal so lofty that the radiating warmth and light never reachour hearts. 

While many of the articles may be somewhat gossipy in tone, theserious phase has not been overlooked. The sketches have been gatheredfrom many sources. Some have been written by myself, others have beengathered from magazines and books. I wish to acknowledge the kindnessof _Scribners' Magazine_, of the _Bookman_, and of the _New EnglandMagazine_ in permitting me to use articles originally appearing inthese respective magazines. To all who have wittingly or unwittinglymade it possible for me to gather my material I wish to acknowledge myindebtedness. Every article has been written, selected, or adaptedbecause of some special value. In these pages the reader may find whatLamb earned during the years of his famous clerkship, or the excitingdetails of Shelley's death. How many times have we heard of Sir PhilipSidney's immortal act of chivalry as he _lay_ on the field at Zutphen!But definite information has it otherwise. To learn of the prodigiousindustry of the youthful Mill, the perseverance of Darwin, the heroicstruggle of Scott, the gentleness of Stevenson, the modesty ofBrowning, the lifelong consecration of Motley, --is not the leaven ofinspiration made of knowledge such as this?

I have an unshaken conviction that the highest art of the teacher ismanifested in the awakening of such an interest that the pupil shallforever after be an eager learner. Am I wrong in hoping that no one, though with but a meager knowledge of literature, can read thesesketches without a desire to know more of the men and women who arethe glory of England and America? Here is but a taste of a moresumptuous feast. 

 Dreams, books are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 

 EDWIN WATTS CHUBB. 

CONTENTS

ENGLISH WRITERS

CHAPTER PAGE

 I. The Ancient Tabard Inn 1

 II. Sir Philip Sidney at Zutphen 4

 III. About Shakspere 9

 IV. John Milton 17

 V. Charles Lamb, the Clerk of the India House 24

 VI. Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb 28

 VII. The Death of Dr. Johnson 33

 VIII. Gray Writes the Elegy 37

 IX. Cowper as a Letter Writer 42

 X. Gibbon and His Visit to Rome 46

 XI. Burns Falls in Love 50

 XII. Burns' First Book of Poems 54

 XIII. Samuel Taylor Coleridge in School and College 59

 XIV. Byron as Swimmer and Feaster 64

 XV. Shelley as a Freshman 71

 XVI. The Death of Shelley 76

 XVII. The School-days of John Keats 82

 XVIII. The Heroism of Sir Walter Scott 88

 XIX. Walter Savage Landor 93

 XX. Leigh Hunt's Business Ability 100

 XXI. De Quincey Runs Away 102

 XXII. Macaulay's Childhood 108

 XXIII. Macaulay Becomes Famous 114

 XXIV. Dickens Writes the Pickwick Papers 119

 XXV. Charles Dickens as Reader 123

 XXVI. On the Death of Dickens 126

 XXVII. Ruskin's Childhood 130

 XXVIII. The Marriage of the Brownings 135

 XXIX. Robert Browning 140

 XXX. Knight's Reminiscences of Tennyson 145

 XXXI. Emerson on Carlyle and Tennyson 150

 XXXII. Literary Recollections of Max Müller 156

 XXXIII. The Early Education of John Stuart Mill 162

 XXXIV. Carlyle Goes to the University 167

 XXXV. Carlyle and His Wife 170

 XXXVI. Carlyle as Lecturer 175

 XXXVII. Carlyle on Wordsworth and Browning 180

XXXVIII. The Author of "Jane Eyre" 184

 XXXIX. Thackery in America 189

 XL. George Eliot Becomes a Writer of Fiction 194

 XLI. The Author of "Alice in WonderLand" 200

 XLII. About Darwin 203

 XLIII. Anecdotes of Huxley 209

 XLIV. Stevenson at Vailima 214

 XLV. Kipling in India 221

AMERICAN WRITERS

 XLVI. Benjamin Franklin Runs Away 226

 XLVII. Washington Irving 234

 XLVIII. Cooper and "The Spy" 242

 XLIX. John Lothrop Motley and Bismarck 249

 L. The Youth of George Ticknor 254

 LI. Fitz-Greene Halleck 259

 LII. The Author of Thanatopsis 262

 LIII. Curtis and Hawthorne at the Brook Farm 266

 LIV. Hawthorne and the Scarlet Letter 270

 LV. Max Müller's Recollections of Emerson, Lowell and Holmes 279

 LVI. Howells Calls on Emerson, and Describes Longfellow 284

 LVII. Longfellow, the Universal Poet 290

 LVIII. Henry David Thoreau 297

 LIX. The Last Days of Edgar Allan Poe 303

 LX. Artemus Ward 313

 LXI. Edmund Gosse Visits Whittier 317

 LXII. Personal Recollections of Whittier 320

 LXIII. Henry Ward Beecher 329

 LXIV. The London "Times" on Lowell 333

 LXV. The Writing of "America" 338

 LXVI. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps and her First Story 340

 LXVII. Sidney Lanier 344

 LXVIII. The Story of Mark Twain's Debts 349

 LXIX. Hamlin Garland's Literary Beginning 358

 LXX. Stephen Crane: A "Wonderful Boy" 361

 LXXI. Eugene Field 364

ILLUSTRATIONS

Geoffrey Chaucer _Frontispiece_

 FACING PAGE

The Old Tabard Inn 2

William Shakspere 8

John Milton 16

Robert Burns 50

Lord Byron 64

Percy Bysshe Shelley 70

Charles Dickens 122

Robert Browning 134

Alfred Tennyson 144

Ralph Waldo Emerson 150

Thomas Carlyle 175

Benjamin Franklin 226

William Cullen Bryant 262

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 290

John Greenleaf Whittier 320

STORIES OF AUTHORS

I

THE ANCIENT TABARD INN

The picture we see here is that of an inn whose fame is as widespreadas the love of English poetry, for it is at the Tabard Inn thatChaucer more than five hundred years ago assembled his nine and twentypilgrims who were preparing to visit the tomb of Thomas à Becket atCanterbury. The witchery of the springtime had stirred the blood ofthese Londoners who, perhaps, were enticed from home more by the softApril showers and the melody of the birds than by their need ofspiritual consolation. This, at least, is the impression we receive asin imagination we join these immortal pilgrims at the Tabard. Ourguide is

 Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still, --

and as he moves among his motley group, let us take a glance at theTabard. 

The picture we have is that of the typical old English inn. "As lateas 1870 the ruins of the famous Tabard could be found. It was near St. Saviour in the Borough High Street. Turning from the street into oneof those courtyards which abound in the east of London, the visitorcomes upon the ruins of the once famous inn the very name of which hasbeen transformed by time. It is now known as the '_Talbot_, ' but theinscription above the doorway contradicts the modern signboard andproclaims the house to be '_The Ancient Tabard Inn_. ' The whole yardis redolent of dilapidation. Facing the visitor on entering is aninteresting block of old buildings, forming part of the left side, andthe bottom of what once was an ample courtyard. This part of thebuilding contains not improbably the shell of the correspondingportion of the original inn. The doors of the first floor all openinto one of the wide balustraded galleries or verandas so common inthe genuine old English hostelry. Until recently the landlord of the_Talbot_, then a small public-house, and still forming part of themodern mass of brick building that blocks up the right side and partof the center of the courtyard, rented the rooms by which thisbalustraded gallery was, and still is, surrounded. They were then letas bedrooms, and kept in good repair; and are supposed to occupy thesite of the very rooms once tenanted by the Canterbury pilgrims; thegallery probably differing but little in appearance from what it waswhen Chaucer frequented it in search of good wine. The landlordeventually became insolvent; the paltry tavern was shut up, and thebedrooms were dismantled. In that plight they might be seen some yearsago, may still possibly be seen--empty, dusty, dreary--ranged aboveground-floor premises which do duty as a parcels' conveyance office, and abutting on a mean, ill-kept yard. Until within the last fewyears the coigne of the old balustraded gallery was connected on theright with the modern brick mass by an ancient wood-work bridge, coeval at least with the oldest portion of the building as it stands. But the bridge is gone, and the lust of gold and the pride of lifehave so destroyed that spirit of reverence and refined superstitiouslove for the venerable which should characterize an advancedcivilization, that it is greatly to be feared the rest of thestructure will soon follow. Yet it was in this courtyard, and beforethis very inn, that Chaucer and his nine-and-twenty pilgrims stood inpicturesque confusion in the early dawn of that spring morning, long, long ago; and agreed for their common amusement on the road each oneof them should tell at least one tale in going to, and another inreturning from Canterbury; the best story teller to be treated to asupper by his fellow travelers on their return to the Tabard Inn. Thecompany comprises representatives from all classes of society exceptthe two extremes; there is neither a prince nor a beggar. Thecharacters are taken from middle-class life, of which they may beaccepted as fair and truthful types; being described with a vigorousfidelity which has never been surpassed in the whole range of art. Every figure stands out from the canvas sharp and clear like picturesseen through a stereoscope. Not a touch, not a line is wanting; eachtrick of speech and peculiarity of feature or of dress, isphotographed with Preraphaelite fidelity. "

 [Illustration: THE OLD TABARD INN From a drawing by Herbert Railton]

II

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY AT ZUTPHEN

Whenever the name of Sir Philip Sidney is mentioned one involuntarilythinks of noble generosity and knightly gentleness and self-sacrifice. And here is the story of the act that forever united his name with thehighest ideals of chivalry:

In August, 1586, Leicester assembled his troops at Arnheim, which hemade his headquarters. After reducing Doesburg, he prepared to besiegeZutphen, an important town on the Yssel. The garrison was in sore needof provisions, which Parma, before marching to its relief, determinedto supply. A convoy of corn, meat, and other necessaries, sufficientto victual the place for three months, was accordingly collected, andon the twenty-second of September left the Spanish camp. So high wasParma's estimate of the importance of preserving Zutphen, that theescort despatched with the convoy numbered twenty-nine hundred footand six hundred horse. Leicester was informed of the enemy's movement, but not of the force which protected it. An ambuscade of five hundredmen, under Sir John Norris, was held sufficient to intercept theconvoy. About fifty young officers volunteered to add their services. This gallant band was composed of the flower of the English army. .. . It was indeed "an incredible extravagance to send a handful of suchheroes against such an army, " but Leicester can scarcely be blamed forfailing to restrain the impulsive ardor which animated his entirestaff. Sidney's characteristic magnanimity betrayed him that day intoa fatal excess. He had risen at the first sound of the trumpet andleft his tent completely armed, but observing that Sir William Pelham, an older soldier, had not protected his legs with cuishes, returnedand threw off his own. The morning was cold and densely foggy, as thelittle company galloped forth to join their comrades in ambush. Justas they came up, Sir John Norris had caught the first sounds of theapproaching convoy. Almost at the same moment the fog cleared off andrevealed at what terrible odds the battle was to be fought that day. Mounted arquebusiers, pikemen and musketeers on foot, Spaniards, Italians, and even, it is said, Albanians, to the number ofthirty-five hundred, guarded the wagons before and behind. The Englishwere but five hundred and fifty men. Yet among them all, the historianhas the right of blood to say with confidence, "There was no thoughtof retreat. " The indomitable national spirit embodied itself in thewar-cry of young Essex: "Follow me, good fellows, for the honor ofEngland and England's queen!" At the word a hundred horsemen, Sidneyin the midst, with lance in hand and curtel-axe at saddle-bow, spurredto the charge. The enemy's cavalry broke, but the musketeers in therear fired a deadly volley, under cover of which it formed anew. Asecond charge re-broke it. In the onset Sidney's horse was killed, buthe remounted and rode forward. Lord Willoughby, after unhorsing andcapturing the Albanian leader, lost his own horse. Attacked on allsides, he must have fallen and yielded, when Sidney came to the rescueand struck down his assailants. Individual valor, however, provedunavailing against the might of numbers. After nearly two hours'desperate opposition, the convoy still made way. Charge succeededcharge in the vain effort to prevent its effecting a junction with thegarrison, two thousand of whom were waiting for the right moment tosally forth. In the last of these onsets, Sir Philip's impetuositycarried him within musket-shot of the camp. A bullet struck hisunprotected leg, just above the knee, and shattered the bone. Heendeavored to remain on the field, but his horse became unmanageable, and in agonies of pain and thirst he rode back to the Englishquarters, a mile and a half distant. An incident of that ride, as toldin the quaint language of Lord Brooke, retains the immortal charm ofpathos which commands our tears, how often soever repeated:

 In which sad progress, passing along by the rest of the army, where his uncle the general was, and being thirsty with excess of bleeding, he called for drink, which was presently brought him, but as he was putting the bottle to his mouth, he saw a poor soldier carried along who had eaten his last at that same feast, ghastly, casting up his eyes at the bottle, which Sir Philip perceiving, took it from his head before he drank, and delivered it to the poor man with these words, "Thy necessity is greater than mine. " And when he had pledged this poor soldier, he was presently carried to Arnheim. 

The golden chain of heroic actions, Christian and pagan, may containexamples of self-denial sublimer and more absolute than this; but inthe blended grace and tenderness of its knightly courtesy, we know notwhere to find its parallel. 

Leicester met his nephew as he was borne back to the camp, and burstinto a genuine passion of sorrow. Many a rough soldier among thosewho, in returning from the failure of their impossible enterprise, nowcame up with their comrade, was unmanned for the first time that day. Sir William Russell, as tender-hearted as he was daring, embraced himweeping, and kissed his hand amid broken words of admiration andsympathy. But Sidney needed no consolation. "I would, " said Leicester, in a letter to Sir Thomas Heneage, "you had stood by to hear his mostloyal speeches to her Majesty, his constant mind to the cause, hisloving care over me, and his most resolute determination for death;not one jot appalled for his blow, which is the most grievous thatever I saw with such a bullet. "

The English surgeons at first gave hopes of his speedy restoration tohealth, and the favorable news was sent to England. Lady Sidney, whohad followed him to Flushing some months before, at once hastened tohim, but with no idea of his danger. The nation at large thought himconvalescent. He himself, however, never expected to recover, althoughsubmitting with fortitude to whatever systems of treatment wereproposed. Nothing was left untried that affection could suggest or theimperfect science of the age effect. His wife tenderly nursed him, andhis two younger brothers were constantly at his side. His quondam foe, Count Hohenlo, though himself dangerously wounded, sent off his ownphysician, Adrian Van den Spiegel, to his aid. After examining theinjuries Adrian pronounced them mortal, and then hastened back to theCount, whose case was not so desperate. "Away, villain!" cried thegenerous soldier in a transport of wrath; "never see my face againtill thou bring better news of that man's recovery, for whoseredemption many such as I were happily lost!"

From the first to the last moment of his suffering Sir Philip's temperwas calm and cheerful. During the three weeks that he lingered atArnheim he occupied himself with the thoughts befitting adeath-bed. .. . On the 17th of October he felt himself dying, andsummoned his friends to say farewell. His latest words were addressedto his brother Robert: "Love my memory; cherish my friends; theirfaith to me may assure you they are honest. But, above all things, govern your will and affections by the will and word of your Creator;in me beholding the end of this world with all her vanities. " Whenpowerless to speak, he replied to the entreaty of friends, who desiredsome token of his trust in God, by clasping his hands in the attitudeof prayer, and a few moments afterwards had ceased to breathe. 

 --Adapted from the _Edinburgh Review_. 

 [Illustration: WILLIAM SHAKSPERE From the portrait by Martin Droeshout]

III

ABOUT SHAKSPERE

What would we not give to be able to relate a half-dozen goodanecdotes about Shakspere? It is true there are traditions, the bestknown of which is the story that he poached deer in the park of SirThomas Lucy. Men have discussed the pros and cons of thisdeer-stealing tradition with a gravity and fulness worthy of aweightier cause. Suppose he did engage in the exciting sport ofworrying a nobleman who had a game preserve. Does that fact blackenthe youth's character? It is said the students at Oxford were the mostnotorious poachers in the kingdom, although expulsion was the penalty. Dr. Forman relates how a student who afterwards became a bishop wasmore given to poaching than to study. 

What do we know about the life of Shakspere? We know that he was bornat Stratford-on-Avon in 1564, that he died there in 1616, April 23. Some years ago I stood in the house which is reputed to be the placeof his birth; over 20, 000 pilgrims from all lands each year pay theirshilling for the privilege of going through that house; the towncorporation has purchased the property and controls it; the place hasbeen photographed until the reading world is familiar with thepicture, --and yet we do not positively know that Shakspere was born inthat house. For Shakspere's father owned two houses at the time of theson's birth; in which of the two he lived at this time we can butguess. We suppose he lived in the Henley Street house, for it was thebetter of the two houses and the Shakspere family was prospering whenWilliam was born. The house itself has been remodeled. I think it isSidney Lee who says that the only thing that remains as it was inShakspere's time is the cellar. We do not know the day of Shakspere'sbirth. In Holy Trinity Church one may look into the book containingthe baptismal record of the babe, William. He was baptized on April 26and as children were usually baptized three days after their birth weinfer he was born April 23. We know that he married Anne Hathaway, awoman eight years his senior; that in early manhood he went to London;that he became an actor, dramatist, manager of a theater; that in1597 he bought New Place, the stateliest residence in Stratford; thathe lived in Stratford during the last years of his life as a highlyesteemed and worthy man, and that he died in 1616 and was buried inTrinity Church. These are the facts in the records of Shakspere'slife. They, however, are not the important facts. The main fact in hislife is his work, the matchless collection of literary masterpiecesthat bear the imprint of his genius. It is also well to keep in mindthat our paucity of definite documentary records is not characteristicof Shakspere alone. We may know little of Shakspere, but we know lessof Marlowe, his most brilliant competitor. 

It is because we know so little of fact in the life of Shakspere thatwe delight to let fancy paint its charming pictures. We are led intothe old Grammar School which Shakspere in all probability attended. Tradition points out the desk at which he used to sit. We can inferwhat he studied. The name of the Latin grammar then used we can deducefrom his quoting a Latin sentence just as it was misquoted in Lilly'sgrammar. Artists have painted from imagination the picture of the boyShakspere. Poets have wandered over the Warwickshire region and intheir mind's eye have seen the youthful bard as he walked over thesame picturesque region. In _Midsummer-Night's Dream_ we read

 I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine. --

and we see the young Shakspere, keen-eyed, observant, reveling in thebeauty of nature. In _Macbeth_ we read

 This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. --

and we recall that Kenilworth and Warwick Castles are near Stratfordand we see the boyish Shakspere as he walks about these magnificenttestimonies to the might and power of feudal England, or perhapsmingling with the crowd when Royalty has come to Kenilworth to beentertained by the lavish Leicester. So, too, when we find in _MuchAdo About Nothing_

 The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait, --

we have a picture before us of the boy standing on the banks of theplacid Avon, enjoying the sports of boyhood and unconsciouslyreceiving impressions that shall later be reproduced to adorn withfreshest imagery the poetry of the world's greatest genius. 

After years of labor the scholars of the world have scraped togetherenough definite information to make the Life of Shakspere, as Mr. Raleigh puts it, "assume the appearance of a scrap-heap of respectablesize. " But to us the great fact in the life of Shakspere is that hehas given us his masterpieces. Perhaps it is just as well that we knowso little about the facts in his life. We have all the more time tostudy his works. About their quality there is little of disagreement. Three hundred years ago Ben Jonson wrote

 . .. I confess thy writings to be such As neither man nor muse can praise too much, --

and the critic of to-day is saying the same thing, only he uses twovolumes instead of two lines to say it. It is true an occasionalvoice, like that of Tolstoy's, will be heard in protest, but theprotest and the critic are both likely to be forgotten before theconsensus of three centuries shall be set aside. 

Shakspere lives and shall live as long as the human race shall delightin the study of the human heart, not because of the chastity andclearness of his diction, not because of the supremacy of hisimagination, nor because of the variety of his melodious verse, --noteven because of the matchless combination of all these charms; but theBard of Stratford lives and shall live because his sanity enabled himto see the "God of things as they are, " and his passion penetratedinto the deepest sorrows and rose to the highest aspirations of thehuman heart, --and throughout all this sympathizing with goodness andwhile despising the depraved yet pitying with a heart of love. 

No system-maker or formula-builder can account for Shakspere. Geniusis ever a miracle. However, we can study the environment in whichgenius moves and has its being. When we ask ourselves how does ithappen that the plays of Shakspere breathe such a wholesome andvigorous morality, we are led to two conclusions, --first, that theEngland of Shakspere's time was a wholesome and vigorous England;second, that the man Shakspere was sound to the core. 

The close of the sixteenth century is one of the most remarkableperiods in the history of the world. Indeed, so striking is theintellectual activity of this age that lately an eminent scientistadvanced the hypothesis that some electric influence, some magneticcurrent must have let itself loose to work upon the destinies of theworld in the production of great men. For in that period in Italy wefind Tasso, the greatest of modern epic poets; then too lived Galileoand Kepler, the astronomers; in France we find the philosophicessayist, Montaigne; in Spain the world-renowned Cervantes, the authorof the immortal Don Quixote; in England both Bacon and Shakspere, beside a host of other writers, generals, admirals and artists. Thissame age is the most flourishing period in Mahometan India; so, too, in China, in Japan, and even in far away Persia we find an unusualdegree of intellectual activity. 

The England of Shakspere! The phrase suggests a train of associationsthat kindle the imagination. The age of literature, war, conquest, adventure, and achievement. The era of Edmund Spenser, "called fromfaeryland to struggle 'gainst dark ways;" of Sir Philip Sidney, thescholar, the courtier, the gentleman; of Sir Walter Raleigh, author, knight, and explorer; of Bacon, "the wisest, meanest, brightest ofmankind. " It is the time when in the _Golden Hind_ Drake iscircumnavigating the globe; when Hawkins is exploring the Indies, andFrobisher is becoming the hero of the Northwest passage; the age ofmarvelous tales told by intrepid explorers and adventurers returningfrom America, a land whose fountains renewed youth and whose riversflowed over sands of gold. It is the era of English sea-dogs pillagingSpanish provinces in spite of imperial manifestos, --above all, it isthe age of the Spanish Armada. 

To recall what this means it is necessary to remember that Spain wasthe great dominating empire of the sixteenth century. Philip II, theDuke of Alva, the horrors of the Spanish inquisition, condemn Spain'spower in this period. But one midsummer morn all England awoke to theglorious news that the Invincible Armada lay at the bottom of the sea. England had triumphed, and now for the first time national lifedreamed of the possibility of leadership in the great game ofworld-politics. The atmosphere was electric with new life. In ruralEngland along lanes flanked with green hedges Englishmen walked withbosoms swelling with new pride, in bustling London vigorous burghersstrode the city's streets with hearts pulsating with new warmth, andeverywhere the eyes of all Englishmen flashed with new fire. 

Could a soul so sensitive as Shakspere's live in such an atmosphereand not be influenced by it? Listen to him as he pays his beautiful, patriotic tribute to England's national glory:

 This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself, This precious stone set in the silver sea, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world. 

And the second cause, we say, is the personality of the man himself. Shakspere wrote pure and lofty poetry because his was a pure and loftynature. I know the disparagers of Shakspere and the advocates of theBaconian theory make much of the traditional wildness of Shakspere'syouth. The common argument is that a man who is charged with thepoaching of deer in his youth is too bad to write good poetry, therefore Bacon wrote Shakspere. Was Bacon an angel? By the sameprocess of reasoning Burns could not have written the Cotter'sSaturday Night. But I deny that Shakspere was profligate, and inmaking this denial I need not prove the impeccability of Shakspere. But his life was essentially pure, his heart good, because theinfluence of the life is sane and wholesome. 

Not alone the greatest intellect of his time, of all times, but alsothe greatest heart, was that possessed by this Warwickshire poet. As aman thinketh in his heart so he is. As Shakspere was, so he wrote. This crystalline wholesome water dashing over this rocky cliff didnot have its origin in yonder pool. Pure water does not flow from amud-puddle. Here is a man who in twenty years writes in round numbersforty productions--the task of Hercules. The product of the manattests the nobility of his soul. No man can labor for twenty yearswithout putting his stamp upon his work. Shakspere was no bar-roombrawler, no prodigal spender of time and substance in riotous living. He lived to the mature age of fifty-two and died a well-to-do man. Theprodigals of the world do not retire with a competency. I repeat thatShakspere was not impeccable; he was no Puritan; but we cannot thinkof the creator of Hamlet, Ophelia, Othello, Desdemona, Cordelia, Portia, Rosalind, Miranda, and Prospero as other than a man of acontrite spirit and a pure heart. As he surpassed his contemporariesin breadth and loftiness of intellect, so too he surpassed them in thereach and vigor of his moral feeling. 

We cannot believe that this man who penetrated deeper than others intothe mystery of life missed the meaning of his own life. Let us hearthe conclusion of the whole matter--the power that moves the world isnot brilliancy of intellect; it is purity of heart. Nobility ofcharacter is the essence of powerful personality. Lincoln is greaterthan Webster, Washington than Jefferson, not through greater mentalgrasp, but because of a purer spiritual essence. The world withouttakes its meaning and color from the world within. Shakspere saw aworld of pure passion and wholesome sanity because his world withinwas pure and sane. 

 [Illustration: JOHN MILTON From a miniature by Faithorne, painted in 1667]

IV

JOHN MILTON

In 1623, when Milton was a boy of fifteen, John Heminge and HenryCondell, "only to keep the memory of so worthy a friend and fellowalive as was our Shakspere, " had given to the world the folio editionof Shakspere's works, very anxious that the said folio might commenditself to "the most noble and incomparable pair of brethern, " William, Earl of this, and Philip, Earl of that, and exceedingly unconsciousthat, next to the production of the works themselves, they were doingthe most important thing done, or likely to be done, in the literaryhistory of the world. Milton read Shakspere, and in the lines which hewrote upon him in 1630, there seems to be the due throb oftranscendent admiration. .. . 

As Shakspere is the supreme name in this order of poets, the men ofsympathy and of humor, Milton stands first in that other great orderwhich is too didactic for humor, and of which Schiller is the bestrecent representative. He was called the lady of his college not onlyfor his beautiful face, but because of the vestal purity and austerityof his virtue. The men of the former class are intuitive, passionate, impulsive; not steadily conscious of their powers; fitful, unsystematic. Their love is ecstasy; their errors are the intoxicationof joy; their sorrows are the pangs of death. .. . 

Milton, the poet of Puritanism, stands out in bold contrast to theseimperfect characters. From his infancy there was nothing unregulatedin his life. His father, clearly a superior man, of keenProtestantism, successful in business, well skilled in music, soonperceived that one of the race of immortals had been born in hishouse. He began, apparently with the conscious and delighted assent ofhis son, to give the young Apollo such an education as Plato mighthave prescribed. An eminently good education it proved to be; only notso good, with a view to the production of a world-poet, as that whichnature, jealous of the Platos and pedagogues, and apt to tumble themand their grammatical appurtenances out of the window when she has oneof her miraculous children in hand, had provided for that Stratfordlad who came to London broken in character and probably almost brokenin heart, some forty years earlier, to be a hanger-on of the theatersand to mount the intellectual throne of the world. No deer-stealingexpeditions late o' nights when the moon silvered the elms ofCharlecote chase; no passionate love affairs and wild boy-marriage. 

Milton, carefully grounded in the tongues, went in due course toCambridge University, and during those years when the youthful mind isin its stage of richest recipiency, lived among the kind of men whohaunt seats of learning, --on the whole, the most uninteresting men inexistence, whose very knowledge is a learned ignorance; not bees ofindustry, who have hoarded information by experience, butbook-_worms_. .. . It is important, also, that Milton was never to anydistracting extent in love. If Shakspere had been a distinguisheduniversity man, would he have told us of a catch that could "drawthree souls out of one weaver?" And if the boy of eighteen had notbeen in a fine frenzy about Anne Hathaway, could he have known howJuliet and Romeo, Othello and Desdemona, loved?

. .. It is a proof of the fiery and inextinguishable nature of Milton'sgenius that it triumphed over the artificiality of his training; thatthere is the pulse of a true poetical life in his most highly wroughtpoems, and that the whole mountain of his learning glows with thestrong internal flame. His inspiration was from within, theinspiration of a profound enthusiasm for beauty and an impassioneddevotion to virtue. The district in which he lived during much of hismost elaborate self-education is not marked enough to have disturbed, by strong impressions from without, the development of his genius fromwithin. Horton lies where the dead flat of southeastern Buckinghammeets the dead flat of southwestern Middlesex. Egham Hill, not quiteso high as Hampstead, and the chalk knoll on which Windsor Castlefails to be sublime, are the loftiest ground in the immediateneighborhood. Staines, the Pontes of the Romans, and Runnymede withits associations, are near the parish church of Horton, in whichMilton worshiped for five or six years, and in which his mother isburied, has one of the Norman porches common in the district, but isdrearily heavy in its general structure, and forms a notable contrastto that fine example of the old English church in which, by thewillows of Avon, lie Shakspere's bones. The river Colne breaks itself, a few miles to the north, into a leash of streams, the mostconsiderable of which flows by Horton. The abounding watercourses areveiled with willows, but the tree does not seem to have attractedMilton's attention. It was reserved for the poet-painter of the _LiberStudiorum_ to show what depths of homely pathos, and what exquisitepicturesqueness of gnarled and knotted line, could be found in apollard willow, and for Tennyson to reveal the poetic expressivenessof the tree as denoting a solemn and pensive landscape, such as thatamid whose "willowy hills and fields" rose the carol

 . .. Mournful, holy, Chaunted loudly, chaunted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, of the Lady of Shalott. .. . 

Milton's bodily appearance at this time was in brilliantcorrespondence with the ideal which imagination might form of ayouthful poet. Perfect in all bodily proportions, an accomplishedfencer, with delicate flowing hair, and beautiful features throughwhich genius, still half in slumber, shed its mystic glow, he was allthat the imagination of Greece saw in the young Hyperion or Apollo. 

. .. His three daughters, Anne, Deborah, and Mary, were the children ofhis first wife. He was twice married after her death in 1653, but hadno more children. So early as 1644 his sight began to fail, and whenhis little girls were left motherless, they could be known to him, asProfessor Masson touchingly says, "only as tiny voices of complaintgoing about in the darkness. " The tiny voices did not move him to loveor pity. His impatient and imperious nature had doubtless undergoneexquisite misery from the moaning discontent of his wife; thedaughters took the mother's part so soon as they were able tounderstand her sorrows; and the grave Puritan displeasure with whichMilton regards the mother seems to have been transferred to thechildren. His austerity as a Puritan and a pedagogue, and the worsethan old Hebrew meanness of his estimate of women, appear to thegreatest disadvantage in connection with his daughters. Had they beensons, he would have thrown all his ardor into the enterprise of theireducation. The training of boys was one of his enthusiasms; but hisdaughters were taught nothing except to read, and were ordered to readaloud to him in languages of which they did not understand a word. Naturally they never loved him; his fame, which they were not able toappreciate, cast on them no ray of comforting light; and they thoughtprobably in sad and scared bewilderment of the relations between theirunhappy wraith-like mother, and their Titan father. How different thewarm and tender relations between Shakspere and his children! In thatinstance it was the daughter, the pet Judith, that was the demuresweet Puritan, yet with a touch of her father's wit in her, and ableto enjoy all the depth of his smile when he would ask her whethercakes and ale were to be _quite_ abolished when the reign of thesaints came in. 

. .. To the man himself we turn, for one brief glance before layingdown the pen. In the evil times of the Restoration, in the land ofthe Philistines, Agonistes but unconquerable, the Puritan Samson endedhis days. Serene and strong; conscious that the ambition of his youthhad been achieved, he begins the day with the Hebrew Bible, listensreverently to words in which Moses or David or Isaiah spake of God. But he attends no church, belongs to no communion, and has no form ofworship in his family; notable circumstances which we may refer, inpart at least, to his blindness, but significant of more than that. His religion was of the spirit, and did not take kindly to any form. Though the most Puritan of the Puritan, he had never stopped long inthe ranks of any Puritan party, or given satisfaction to Puritanecclesiastics and theologians. In his youth he loved the night; in hisold age he loves the sunlight of early morning as it glimmers on hissightless eyes. The music which had been his delight since childhoodhas still its charm, and he either sings or plays on the organ orbass-violin every day. In his gray coat, at the door of his house inBunhill Fields, he sits on clear afternoons; a proud, ruggedly genialold man, with sharp satiric touches in his talk, the untunable fiberin him to the last. Eminent foreigners come to see him; friendsapproach reverently, drawn by the splendor of his discourse. It wouldrange, one can well imagine, in glittering freedom, like "arabesquesof lightning, " over all ages and all literatures. He was the prince ofscholars; a memory of superlative power waiting, as submissivehandmaid, on the queenliest imagination. The whole spectacle ofancient civilization, its cities, its camps, its landscapes, wasbefore him. There he sat in his gray coat, like a statue cut ingranite. England had made a sordid failure, but he had not failed. Hissoul's fellowship was with the great Republicans of Greece and Rome, and with the Psalmist and Isaiah and Oliver Cromwell. 

 --From Peter Bayne in the _Contemporary Review_. 

V

CHARLES LAMB, THE CLERK OF THE INDIA HOUSE

The author of the _Essays of Elia_ and _Tales Founded on the Plays ofShakspere_ worked for the greater part of his life in the employ ofthe Honorable East India Company. He received his appointment in 1792, the year of the birth of Shelley. He had been trained at Christ'sHospital for a university career; this gave him a good classicaleducation but not especially good preparation for his new work. Had hebeen obliged to pass a civil service examination he would hardly havereceived the appointment. Of geography and arithmetic he knew little. The schoolboy of to-day will be surprised to learn that a boy ahundred and more years ago might reach the age of fifteen in a goodgrammar school of that period and yet not be able to use themultiplication table. As late as 1823 Lamb writes: "I think I lose ahundred pounds a year owing solely to my want of neatness in making upaccounts: how I puzzle 'em out at last is the wonder!" There is noevidence, however, to show that Lamb did not overcome his lack ofpreparation. The contrary impression sometimes prevails, due, perhaps, to his supposed apology for his late arrival by his representationthat he made up for it by a correspondingly early departure. Hisindustry must have been appreciated, for his salary rose from nothingto a fair figure. 

The modern young man, desirous of earning a good salary at once, willbe surprised at the statement that Lamb worked for nothing at first. He will be still more surprised to learn that in those days a clerk inthe employ of the great India Company worked three years for nothing. This period evidently was considered as the apprenticeship. It is truea gratuity of 30 pounds was given, and by extra work one might earnsmall sums. In April, 1795, three years having ended, he received asalary of 40 pounds a year. The next year it rose to 70. By 1799 ithad advanced to 90, and from then on to 1814 he received an incrementof ten pounds every two years. He also received a gratuity each year. The gratuity by 1814 had amounted to 80 pounds. After a reorganizationof the company in 1815 Lamb seems to have progressed in salary, for hethen received 480 pounds, and in 1821 it was 700; and at the time ofhis retirement it was 730. 

On the whole, one can say that Lamb's lot was not a hard one. Nodoubt, many of his fellow-authors had reason to envy him his assuredincome. His work was hard and not always pleasant, but he knew, withall his half-pretended grumbling, that it would not be wise to rely onhis pen for a livelihood. He once remonstrated with the poeticalQuaker, Bernard Barton, who proposed to give up a bank-clerkship, inthis wise: "Trust not the public; I bless every star that Providence, not seeing good to make me independent, has seen it next good tosettle me down on the stable foundation of Leadenhall. .. . HenceforthI retract all my fond complaints of mercantile employments; look uponthem as lovers' quarrels. I was but half in earnest. Welcome, deadtimber of a desk that makes me live! a little grumbling is a wholesomemedicine for the spleen; but in my inner heart do I improve andembrace this our close but unharassing way of life. "

That his work was no sinecure can be gathered from this letter ofabout 1815: "On Friday I was at office from ten in the morning (twohours dinner excepted) to eleven at night; last night till nine. Mybusiness and office business in general have increased so; I don'tmean I am there every night, but I must expect a great deal of it. Inever leave till four, and do not keep a holiday now once in tentimes, where I used to keep all red-letter days and some five daysbesides, which I used to dub nature's holidays. .. . I had formerlylittle to do. .. . Hard work and thinking about it taints even theleisure hours--stains Sunday with workday contemplations. "

After thirty-three years of service he was granted by his company apension of 450 pounds. On the minutes of the Court of Directors can befound the following resolution: "that the resignation of Mr. CharlesLamb, of the accountant-general's office, on account of certifiedill-health be accepted, and it appearing that he has served thecompany faithfully for thirty-three years . .. He be allowed a pensionof 450 pounds annually. "

When the resolution was communicated to him he went home to enjoy onelong holiday of leisure and literary study and authorship. "I amRetired Leisure. .. . I have worked task work, and have the rest of theday to myself. " But his day did not last many years. "Lamb was butfifty when he quitted the service of the company; yet less than tenyears of life were left to him. Not only so, but the happiness he hadexpected to find proved more and more elusive. The increasingfrequency of his sister's aberration was a heavy burden for a backwhich grew daily less able to bear the strain. The leisure to which hehad looked forward so eagerly was spent in listening to incoherentbabblings, that rambling chat which was to him 'better than the senseand sanity of this world. ' In her lucid intervals they played picquettogether, or talked gravely but firmly of the inevitable separationlooming nearer and nearer. In 1830 Hazlitt died. Four years later that'great and dear spirit, ' Coleridge, passed away after long suffering. The blow to Lamb was stunning in its severity; and the loss of thisearliest and best-loved friend possibly accelerated his own decease. Towards the close of the year a fall while walking caused a triflingwound. No harm was expected to result; but the general feebleness ofhis health brought on erysipelas, and upon Saturday, January 3, 1835, he was borne to his rest in a quiet corner of Edmonton Church-yard, there to await the coming, twelve years later, of the sister who hadbeen throughout his life at once his greatest joy and his chiefestcare. "

VI

DR. JOHNSON AND CHARLES LAMB

Between Johnson and Lamb there would seem to be little in common. Theponderous old philosopher, "tearing his meat like a tiger, andswallowing his tea in oceans, " presents a picture very dissimilar tothat of the stammering Lamb whom Coleridge has well called the"gentle-hearted Lamb. " And yet there are many points of similarity. 

Perhaps the most striking resemblance is in respect to theirgenerosity. The unfailing testimony of all their friends is thatneither could restrain the impulse to give. The celebrated De Quinceyis led to characterize Lamb's munificence as _princely_, whileProcter, one of his younger friends, simply says, "he gave awaygreatly. " On the other hand, the testimony in regard to the generosityof Johnson is equally strong. He was so open-hearted that he could nottrust himself to go upon the street with much money in his purse. Neither Lamb nor Johnson believed in the modern methods of attendingto charitable giving through the mediation of boards and committees. Each violated the commonest precepts of a coldblooded politicaleconomy. If want and suffering were depicted upon the face of themendicant, that was enough to call for the open purse. What if thebeggar did look like a thief or drunkard? He might spend the money forgin or tobacco, but what of that? "Why should they be denied suchsweeteners of their existence?" was Johnson's indulgent plea. Thisstern moralist so much enjoyed giving that he doubtless would haveregretted the passing of laws prohibiting the beggar from plying hisvocation in public. So too would the genial Elia, who obeyed his ownprecept of "give and ask no questions. "

While returning to his lodgings after midnight Johnson would oftendrop pennies into the hands of poor children sleeping on thethresholds and stalls, to furnish them with the means for a breakfast. This was done at a time when he was living on pennies himself. "Reader, " pleads Elia in his _Praise of Chimney Sweepers_, "if thoumeetest one of these small gentry in thy early rambles, it is good togive him a penny--it is better to give him a twopence. " And then Lambdescribes the choice and fragrant drink, _Saloop_, the delight of thesweep, a basin of which together with a slice of delicate bread andbutter will cost but a twopence. As we read the description we have nohesitancy in believing that the "unpennied sweep" frequently became apennied sweep after the gentle Elia had passed by. 

Goldsmith once remarked that to be miserable was enough to insure theprotection of Johnson. This generous quality of mind filled the houseof Johnson with a queer assortment of pensioners. Had Lamb's home lifepermitted, equally full of the needy and homeless would it have been. In 1796 occurred the terrible tragedy that we may permit Lamb himselfto describe in his letter to Coleridge, --"White, or some of myfriends, or the public papers by this time may have informed you ofthe terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. I will onlygive you the outlines: My poor, dear, dearest sister, in a fit ofinsanity, has been the death of her own mother. I was at hand onlytime enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present ina madhouse, from which I fear she must be moved to an hospital. .. . Mypoor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of himand my aunt. .. . God Almighty have us well in his keeping!" Lambassumed the tender care of his sister, and his watchfulness and lovingcare are more beautiful than the most charming essay he ever wrote. But this condition at home prevented that generous open-heartedhospitality so characteristic of Johnson. As it was he contributed tothe support of several. For a long period he gave thirty pounds a yearto his old schoolmistress. Telfourd relates that when Lamb saw thenurse who had waited on Coleridge during his last illness, he forcedfive guineas on her. Equally impulsive was his manner toward Procter, whom he one time noticed to be in low spirits and imagined the causeto be lack of money. "My dear boy, " said he suddenly turning towardhis friend, "I have a quantity of useless things, I have now in mydesk a--a hundred pounds--that I don't _know_ what to do with. Takeit. "

Some years ago when comparing these two men a Mr. Roose wrote inconcluding his paper: "We are all familiar with Johnson's huge, ungainly form, arrayed in brown suit more or less dilapidated, singed, bushy wig, black stockings, and mean old shoes. A quaintlittle figure, Lamb comes before our vision, in costume uncontemporaryand as queer as himself, consisting of a suit of black cloth (theyboth affected dark colors), rusty silk stockings shown from the knees, thick shoes a mile too large, shirt with a wide, ill-plaited frill, and tiny white neckcloth tied in a minute bow. "

It is pleasant to fancy these two originals being brought intopersonal contact. Nor is it hard, for all the tokens to the contrary, to imagine Elia taking the grand, humane old doctor into his embrace(a huger armful than his beloved folios), sitting up with him o'nights, as he did with them, delighting in the humor of hisconversation, which was said by a contemporary to be unequaled exceptby the old comedians, in whom Lamb's spirit found diversion; piercingto heights and depths in his nature which Boswell never revealed tohim; while Johnson, it may safely be inferred, would have loved this"poor Charles, " in whom Carlyle could perceive but so slender a strainof worth. But had they met at all, it would have been on equal terms. Goldsmith maintained with difficulty, though he did maintain, hisattitude of independence towards the colossus of his age. CharlesLamb, without any difficulty and without the show of assertiveness, would have maintained it better. Lamb, who from earliest manhoodrefused to knock under to the threatening intellectual arrogance ofColeridge; who shook Wordsworth by the nose instead of by the handwith the greeting, "How d'ye do, old Lake Poet!"--his stammering voicemight have broken with impunity on the doctor's weightiest utteranceswith the absurdest quips and twists of speech of which even he wascapable. Yet both were of wayward nature, and had they met might nothave coalesced. 

Lamb would have understood Johnson better than Johnson would haveunderstood the whimsicalities of the witty clerk. At one time whilediscussing authors with friends Lamb said, --"There is Dr. Johnson: Ihave no curiosity; no strange uncertainty about him. "

Johnson's restraint in the use of alcoholic drinks is in contrast withLamb's indulgence. But Johnson's intemperate tea-drinking makes himone with Lamb in his struggle with tobacco. In writing to Coleridgefor advice on smoking, Lamb asks: "What do you think of smoking? Iwant your sober _average noon opinion_ of it. .. . May be the truth is, that _one_ pipe is wholesome, _two_ pipes toothsome, _three_ pipesnoisome, _four_ pipes fulsome, _five_ pipes quarrelsome; and that'sthe _sum_ on't. But that is deciding rather upon rhyme than reason. "And Telfourd tells us that when Parr saw Lamb puffing like somefurious enchanter, he asked how he had acquired the power of smokingat such a rate. Lamb replied, "I toiled after it, sir, as some mentoil after virtue. "

VII

THE DEATH OF DR. JOHNSON

By common consent Boswell's _Life of Johnson_ takes first place as abiography. Some critics go so far as to say that the excellence of thebiography is to be accounted for by the deficiency in the character ofBoswell; that Boswell was such a blind and whole-souled worshiper ofJohnson that he exposed the faults of his subject with the same zealwith which he published the virtues. This may be true. Whether true ornot, it is not an altogether bad quality. Many of us think that thebiographies of our modern men of letters would have more vivacity andlifelikeness were they to contain an occasional glimpse of the herowhen he is not on the parade ground. The biography of Tennyson by hisson, Lord Hallam, would be far more convincing had the son given usoccasional pictures of the poet when he was not at his best. But, perhaps, it is too much to hope that a reverent and admiring son cangive the world a vital, impartial, and comprehensive life of hisfather. 

Boswell has given us a full account of Johnson's last days. The gruffold lexicographer had lived a robust life; he had faced manytemptations, and had not always retired from the conflict victorious. On the whole, however, he had lived an exemplary life, but like manyanother good man he had a dread of dying; he feared he might not meetthe last foe as worthily as a man of his character and reputationshould. But this was a groundless fear. For when the last illness wasupon him, he asked his physician to tell him plainly whether there wasany hope of his recovery. The doctor first asked his patient whetherhe could hear the whole truth, whatever it might be. Upon hearing anaffirmative reply, the physician declared that in his opinion nothingshort of a miracle would restore health. 

"Then, " said Johnson, "I will take no more physic, not even myopiates; for I have prayed that I may render up my soul unclouded. "

A brother of Boswell's wrote the following letter concerning the lasthours of Johnson:

"The Doctor, from the time that he was certain his death was near, appeared to be perfectly resigned, was seldom or never fretful or outof temper, and often said to his faithful servant, who gave me thisaccount, 'Attend, Francis, to the salvation of your soul, which is theobject of greatest importance:' he also explained to him passages inthe Scripture, and seemed to have pleasure in talking upon religioussubjects. 

"On Monday, the 13th of December, the day on which he died, a MissMorris, daughter to a particular friend of his, called, and said toFrancis, that she begged to be permitted to see the doctor, that shemight earnestly request him to give her his blessing. Francis wentinto the room, followed by the young lady, and delivered the message. The doctor turned himself in the bed, and said, 'God bless you, mydear!' These were the last words he spoke. His difficulty of breathingincreased till about seven o'clock in the evening, when Mr. Barber andMrs. Desmoulins, who were sitting in the room, observed that the noisehe made in breathing had ceased, went to the bed, and found he wasdead. "

This account, together with several others given by various friends, assures us that the death of Johnson was trustful and tranquil. It isanother illustration of that beautiful dispensation of nature which, as a rule, makes death a mere slipping away, a falling asleep. TheFrancis who is mentioned in the letter is the faithful negro servantwhom Johnson so generously provided for in his will. In making hiswill the doctor had asked a friend how much of an annuity gentlemenusually gave to a favorite servant, and was told that in the case of anobleman fifty pounds a year was considered an adequate reward formany years of faithful service:

"Then, " said Johnson, "shall I be _nobilissimus_, for I mean to leaveFrank seventy pounds a year, and I desire you to tell him so. "

This generosity was too much for the equanimity of Sir John Hawkins, one of the executors of the will, who, when he found that this negroservant would receive about fifteen hundred pounds, including anannuity of seventy pounds a year, grumbled and muttered "a caveatagainst ostentatious bounty and favor to negroes. " But however muchthe Sir Johns may grumble, we cannot think the less of Johnson for hiskindness in remembering a faithful and deserving servant. 

Johnson's refusal to take either wine or opiates recalls that in anage in which the use of alcoholic drinks was very common he was anuncompromising foe to wine, and that he was, in his latter years, loudin his praise of water. "As we drove back to Ashbourne, " says Boswell, "Dr. Johnson recommended to me, as he had often done, to drink wateronly. 'For, ' said he, 'you are then sure not to get drunk; whereas ifyou drink wine, you are never sure. '" And this was not the only matterin which he was in advance of his contemporaries, and of most of ourstoo. Johnson liked satisfying food, such as a leg of pork, or veal piewell stuffed, with plum pie and sugar, and he devoured enormousquantities of fruit, especially peaches. His inordinate love of teahas almost passed into a proverb, --he has actually been credited withtwenty-five cups at a sitting, and he would keep Mrs. Thrale brewingit for him till four o'clock in the morning. The following impromptu, spoken to Miss Reynolds, points its own moral:

 For hear, alas, the dreadful truth, Nor hear it with a frown: Thou can'st not make the tea so fast As I can gulp it down. 

VIII

GRAY WRITES THE ELEGY

Recently I was conversing with a practical man of affairs who had justreturned from his first visit to Europe. Art galleries had provedtiresome and Westminster Abbey had bored him. But there was one placethat he had determined to see and see it he did. 

"What place was that?" I asked. 

"Stoke Pogis, " was the reply. 

Is not this answer indicative of the attitude of thousands who cannever forget the exquisite charm cast over their youth by themelancholy beauty of the _Elegy in a Country Church-yard_? If fame wasthe end of General Wolfe's ambition, he was wise in saying that hewould rather have written the _Elegy_ than be able to take Quebec onthe morrow; for of all English poems the _Elegy_ is the most popularand widely known; it is the flower of the "literature of melancholy. "The _Elegy_ is the glorification of the obscure; therein lies itspopularity. The most of us are obscure. The _Elegy_ flatters us bysuggesting that we might have swayed the rod of empire or "waked toecstasy the living lyre, " if we had had the chance, --or, what we thinkis more likely the explanation, if we had not had a saner insight intothe values of life than the Miltons and Cromwells. 

Stoke Pogis is always associated with the name of Gray. It is avillage, if such it may be called, between London and Windsor Castle. The church is "on a little level space about four miles north of theThames at Eton. From the neighborhood of the church no vestige ofhamlet or village is visible, and the aspect of the place is slightlyartificial, like a rustic church in a park on a stage. The traveleralmost expects to see the grateful peasantry of an opera, cheerfullyhabited, make their appearance, dancing on the greensward. "

Gray and his mother, the father having died in 1741, went to StokePogis in 1742. At West End House, a simple farmhouse of two stories, Gray lived for many years. In the autumn of 1742 was begun the _Elegyin a Country Church-yard_. The common impression is that the wholepoem was written at Stoke Pogis, but this is not the truth. It isbetter to say that it was begun in October or November at Stoke Pogis, continued seven years later at the same place and at Cambridge, andfinished at Stoke Pogis on June 12th, 1750. It is interesting to notethat in each case an impetus was given to the composition of the poemby the death of a friend. Several months before the poem was begun in1742, West, a friend whose death made a very deep impression upon thesensitive nature of Gray, had passed away; and on October 31 JonathanRogers, an uncle of Gray's, died at Stoke Pogis; and when the poem wasnext taken up Gray was mourning the death of his aunt. In commentingon this subject Mr. Gosse writes, --"He was a man who had a veryslender hold on life himself, who walked habitually in the Valley ofthe Shadow of Death, and whose periods of greatest vitality werethose in which bereavement proved to him that, melancholy as he was, even he had something to lose and to regret. "

On the 12th of June, 1750, Gray wrote to his friend, HoraceWalpole, --"Having put an end to a thing whose beginning you have seenlong ago, I immediately send it to you. You will, I hope, look upon itin the light of a thing with an end to it: a merit that most of mywritings have wanted, and are like to want. " Walpole was naturallydelighted with the poem--so delighted, in fact, that he handed itabout from friend to friend and even made manuscript copies of it. This caused some embarrassment to the poet. In February, 1751, he wasannoyed to find that the publisher of the _Magazine of Magazines_ wasactually printing his _Elegy_ in his periodical. So Gray immediatelywrote to Walpole: "As I am not at all disposed to be either soindulgent or so correspondent as they desire, I have but one bad wayto escape the honor they would inflict upon me: and therefore amobliged to desire you would make Dodsley print it immediately (whichmay be done in less than a week's time) from your copy, but without myname, in what form is most convenient for him, but on his best paperand character; he must correct the press himself, and print it withoutany interval between the stanzas, because the sense is in some placescontinued without them. " On the 16th of February, only five days afterthis letter was received, _An Elegy wrote in a Country Church-yard_appeared as a large quarto pamphlet, anonymous, price sixpence. 

From the very first it achieved great popularity. Magazine aftermagazine published it without giving the author any compensation. Gray was soon hit upon as the author. Unfortunately, the success ofthe poem gave no increased income to the poet. Dodsley, the publisher, is said to have made about a thousand pounds from the various poems ofGray, but Gray had the impractical idea that it was not dignified fora poet to make money from poetry. 

In view of this lack of compensation for his poetic writings, it isvery gratifying to know that during the latter days of his life Grayenjoyed the emolument arising from his holding the chair of ModernLiterature and Modern Languages at Cambridge. This paid him 400 poundsa year, and did not require much work, as the office was a sinecure. 

One of the biographers points out that this promotion was broughtabout inadvertently through the riotous living of Gray's great enemy, Lord Sandwich. Professor Lawrence Brockett, the incumbent of the chairof Literature at Cambridge, dined with Lord Sandwich at Hinchinbroke. He became so drunk that in riding home to Cambridge he fell from hishorse and broke his neck. At once five obscure dons made briskapplication for the vacant place, and Gray, sensitive and lacking thearts of the politician, did not expect the place. But the author ofthe _Elegy_ was no longer to be neglected. He soon received a letterhighly complimenting his work and offering him the professorship. Grayaccepted and was summoned to court to kiss the hand of the monarch, George III. The king made several complimentary remarks to Gray. Afterwards when the poet's friends asked Gray to tell them what theking had said he replied that the room was so hot and he soembarrassed that he really did not know what the king had said. 

 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery--all he had--a tear, He gained from Heaven--'twas all he wished--a friend. 

 No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, -- There they alike in trembling hope repose, -- The bosom of his father and his God. 

IX

COWPER AS A LETTER WRITER

William Cowper is well known as a poet, having written one of the mostpopular hymns in the English language, and he is also one of the bestof letter writers. It is commonly said that we have lost the gentleart of writing a good letter. When a man can send a postal card fromBoston to San Francisco for one cent and one from New York to Parisfor two cents, he is not likely to be so choice in his use of languageas when he paid a shilling for the privilege of getting a letter. Inthe first letter which is here quoted we find Cowper writing an urgentinvitation to his cousin, Lady Hesketh, to visit him at Olney. 

"And now, my dear, let me tell you once more that your kindness inpromising us a visit has charmed us both. I shall see you again. Ishall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will show youmy prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its banks, everything that I have described. Talk not of an inn! Mention it notfor your life! We have never had so many visitors but we couldaccommodate them all, though we have received Unwin and his wife, andhis sister, and his son, all at once. My dear, I will not let youcome till the end of May, or beginning of June, because before thattime my greenhouse will not be ready to receive us, and it is the onlypleasant room belonging to us. When the plants go out, we go in. Iline it with mats, and spread the floor with mats; and there you shallsit with a bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge ofhoneysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will make you a bouquet ofmyrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention the country will notbe in complete beauty; and I will tell you what you shall find at yourfirst entrance. Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you shall see on the righthand a box of my making. It is the box in which have been lodged allmy hares, and in which lodges Puss (Cowper's pet hare) at present. Buthe, poor fellow, is worn out with age and promises to die before youcan see him. On the right hand stands a cupboard, the work of the sameauthor; it was once a dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to youstands a table, which I also made. But a merciless servant havingscrubbed it till it became paralytic, it serves no purpose now but ofornament, and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, atthe farther end of this superb vestibule, you will find the door ofthe parlor, into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduceyou to Mrs. Unwin, unless we should meet her before, and where we willbe as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my cousin, to the_Swan_ at Newport and there you shall find me ready to conduct you toOlney. My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in whichJupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it willnever be anything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god iscontent with it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be sotoo. --Adieu! my dearest, dearest cousin, --W. C. "

Cowper's letters are not interesting because they treat of the greatmen and important affairs of his day. They are interesting because helived a quiet life and was able in his own way to paint a picturetreating of the common doings of an apparently unimportant life. Hereis a picture of an election in the country, or rather of thecandidates' methods in the old days:

"We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and myself, very composedly, and without the least apprehension of any suchintrusion, in our snug parlor, one lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentleman winding worsted, when, to our unspeakable surprise, a mob appeared before the window, a smart rap was heard at the door, the boys halloed, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville. Puss wasunfortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, with all hisgood friends at his heels, was refused entrance at the grand entry, and referred to the back door, as the only possible way of approach. Candidates are creatures not very susceptible to affronts, and wouldrather, I suppose, climb in at a window than be absolutely excluded. In a minute the yard, the kitchen, and the parlor were filled. Mr. Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with a degree ofcordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he and as many moreas could find chairs were seated, he began to open the intent of hisvisit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not equally inclined tobelieve, and the less, no doubt, because Mr. Ashburner, the drapier, addressing himself to me at that moment, informed me that I had agreat deal. Supposing that I could not be possessed of such a treasurewithout knowing it, I ventured to confirm my first assertion by sayingthat if I had any I was utterly at a loss to imagine where it couldbe, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr. Grenvillesqueezed me by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. Hekissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole amost loving, kissing, kind-hearted gentleman. "

X

GIBBON AND HIS VISIT TO ROME

In that celebrated literary club founded by Dr. Johnson and Sir JoshuaReynolds were Burke, Goldsmith, Garrick, Fox, Gibbon, and Sheridan. Ofthese Gibbon is not the least distinguished. He is an illustriousexample of what an ordinary personality can accomplish by reason of anextraordinary devotion to one purpose. Some few men achieve fame bytheir brilliant versatility; some, as in the case of Samuel Johnson, by their commanding personal force; Gibbon has won a permanent placein literary history by spending his life in doing one thing. That onething he did so well that E. A. Freeman, one of the prominenthistorians of the nineteenth century, has truthfully said, --"Heremains the one historian of the eighteenth century whom modernresearch has neither set aside nor threatened to set aside. "

In his memoirs Gibbon reveals himself as a man with little dignity orheroism. There is a droll story that is apt to suggest itself when onethinks of Gibbon. At one time, when asking a dignified lady for herhand in marriage, he fell upon his knees in proper lover-like manner. Unfortunately Gibbon was so stout that upon her refusal he foundhimself in the embarrassing need of calling in a servant to help himto his feet again. Memories such as these, however, cannot blind us tothe essential worth in the character of the great historian. In thelight of his consecration to a worthy purpose his life is not withoutits heroism. To write _The History of the Decline and Fall of theRoman Empire_ is a monumental achievement. To bend every energy to thefulfilling of a high resolve is heroic. From 1764 to 1787 his one aimin life was to write a scholarly history that should cover the vastfield that he had chosen. He may lack that spiritual insight whichenables one to estimate world movements in the upper regions ofreligion, but he did not lack unfaltering devotion to his purpose. Sowell did he do his work that his six volumes can be found in thelibrary of every student of the past. The story is told of a greatGerman who learned English in order to read Gibbon in the original. 

In the following extract from his Autobiography is found his ownexplanation of the circumstances under which he conceived his vastproject "amid the ruins of the Capitol, " in 1764:

"My temper is not very susceptible of enthusiasm; and the enthusiasmwhich I do not feel, I have ever scorned to affect. But, at thedistance of twenty-five years, I can neither forget nor express thestrong emotions which agitated my mind as I first approached andentered the eternal city. After a sleepless night, I trod, with alofty step, the ruins of the Forum; each memorable spot where Romulusstood, or Tully spoke, or Cæsar fell, was at once present to my eye;and several days of intoxication were lost or enjoyed before I coulddescend to a cool and minute investigation. My guide was Mr. Byers, aScotch antiquary of experience and taste; but in the daily labor ofeighteen weeks, the powers of attention were sometimes fatigued, tillI was myself qualified, in a last review, to select and study thecapital works of ancient and modern art. Six weeks were borrowed formy tour of Naples, the most populous of cities, relative to its size, whose luxurious inhabitants seem to dwell on the confines of paradiseand hell-fire. I was presented to the boy-king by our new envoy, SirWilliam Hamilton, who, wisely diverting his correspondence from theSecretary of State to the Royal Society and British Museum, haselucidated a country of such inestimable value to the naturalist andantiquarian. On my return, I fondly embraced, for the last time, themiracles of Rome. .. . In my pilgrimage from Rome to Loretto I againcrossed the Apennine; from the coast of the Adriatic I traversed afruitful and populous country, which could alone disprove the paradoxof Montesquieu, that modern Italy is a desert. .. . 

"The use of foreign travel has been often debated as a generalquestion; but the conclusion must be finally applied to the characterand circumstances of each individual. With the education of boys, where or how they may pass over some juvenile years with the leastmischief to themselves or others, I have no concern. But aftersupposing the previous and indispensable requisites of age, judgment, a competent knowledge of men and books, and a freedom from domesticprejudices, I will briefly describe the qualifications which I deemmost essential to a traveler. He should be endowed with an active, indefatigable vigor of mind and body, which can seize every mode ofconveyance, and support, with a careless smile, every hardship of theroad, the weather, or the inn. The benefits of foreign travel willcorrespond with the degrees of these qualifications; but, in thissketch, those to whom I am known will not accuse me of framing my ownpanegyric. It was at Rome, on the 15th of October, 1764, as I satmusing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the bare-footed friarswere singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter, that the idea ofwriting the decline and fall of the city first started to my mind. "

XI

BURNS FALLS IN LOVE

When Robert Burns and his brother were working hard on the MountOliphant farm, Robert fell in love. This experience, alas, in afteryears became too frequent an occurrence to occasion much comment, forthe ease with which the poet fell in and out of love was the chieffault in a faulty life. But when this episode occurred the boy wasstill an innocent country lad in his fifteenth year, a lad perhapssomewhat rude and clownish, at least such is an unfounded tradition. Out of the monotony of this life of prosaic toil and drudgery, Burnsis lifted by the romance which fortunately he has himself described. 

"You know, " he says, "our country custom of coupling a man and womantogether as partners in the labors of the harvest. In my fifteenthsummer my partner was a bewitching creature, a year younger thanmyself. My scarcity of English denies me the power of doing herjustice in that language, but you know the Scottish idiom. She was abonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, she, altogether unwittingly toherself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which in spite ofacid disappointment, gin-house prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human joys here below! How she caught thecontagion I cannot tell. .. . Indeed, I did not know myself why I likedso much to loiter behind with her, when returning in the evening fromour labors; why the tones of her voice made my heartstrings thrilllike an Æolian harp; and especially why my pulse beat such a furiousratan when I looked and fingered over her little hand, to pick out thecruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her love-inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly; and it was her favorite reel to which I attemptedgiving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as toimagine that I could make verses like printed ones, composed by menwho read Greek and Latin; but my girl sung a song which was said to becomposed by a country laird's son, on one of his father's maids, withwhom he was in love; and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as wellas he; for, excepting that he could shear sheep and cast peats, hisfather living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar-craft thanmyself. Thus with me began love and poetry. "

 [Illustration: ROBERT BURNS From the portrait by Nasmyth]

The song that was due to this boyish passion is called "HandsomeNell, " and is said to be the first he wrote. It can be found in anycomplete edition of the poet's work. In after years he himself callsit puerile and silly, but, while lacking the exquisite perfection ofBurns' later lyrics, it is far superior to the usual first attempts ofpoets. The last two stanzas run thus:

 A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart; But it's Innocence and Modesty That polishes the dart. 

 'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 'Tis this enchants my soul! For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control. 

"I composed it, " says Burns, "in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and tothis hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies atthe remembrance. "

Poor Burns! How much happier he would have been had all his loves beenas innocent as this first experience! In one of Tennyson's mostvigorous passages in the _Idylls_ we read, . .. For indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thoughts, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man. 

Perhaps, if Burns in a later love affair had been successful in hissuit, his life and reputation would not have suffered as they have, for the most culpable trait in the character of the famous Scotch poetis the ease with which he abandoned one lover for another. He wasforever falling in love, and there is some evidence to the effect thathe loved two or three at the same time. There is only too much truthin Burns' own lines, Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, A mistress still I had aye. 

But perhaps all this would have been different had Ellison Begbie, thedaughter of a small farmer, smiled favorably upon the advances of theyoung farmer from Lochlea. She is said to have been a young woman ofgreat charm and liveliness of mind, though not a beauty. In afteryears Burns always spoke of her with the greatest of respect and asthe one woman, of the many upon whom he had lavished his fickleaffection, who most likely would have made a pleasant partner forlife. 

His love affair with this young lady took place near the close of histwenty-second year. Her refusal seems to have had a malign influenceupon the career of our poet. Up to this time his love affairs, although numerous, were innocent. As his brother Gilbert says, theywere "governed by the strictest rules of virtue and modesty. " Buthenceforth there is a change in the character of Burns. Shortly afterthe fair Ellison had turned a deaf ear to the letters and love-songsof the importunate wooer, Robert and his brother Gilbert went toIrvine, hoping that in this flax-dressing center they could increasetheir income by dressing the flax raised on their own farm. HereBurns, always very susceptible to new influences, --he would not be thepoet he is had he not been keenly alive and susceptible, --fell underthe malignant charm of a wild sailor-lad whose habits were loose andirregular. "He was, " says Burns, "the only man I ever knew who was agreater fool than myself, where woman was the presiding star; but hespoke of lawless love with levity, which hitherto I had regarded withhorror. _Here his friendship did me a mischief. _"

XII

BURNS' FIRST BOOK OF POEMS

Burns was in trouble; he had failed as a farmer, and as a young man hehad wounded the sensibilities of his family. It seemed best to try anew life in a new land, so he promised a Mr. Douglas to go to Jamaicaand become a bookkeeper on his estate there. But where should he getthe money to pay his passage? There were the poems lying in histable-drawer--might they not be published and money be raised by thesale? His friends encouraged him to publish them, and what is more tothe point, they subscribed in advance for a number of the copies. JohnWilson of Kilmarnock was to do the printing. During May, June, andJuly of 1786 the printer was doing his work. At the end of July thevolume appeared, and soon the fame of the Ayrshire Plowman wasestablished. Let us hear Burns himself give his account of theventure:

"I gave up my part of the farm to my brother, and made what littlepreparation was in my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my nativecountry forever, I resolved to publish my poems. I weighed myproductions as impartially as was in my power; I thought they hadmerit; and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a cleverfellow, even though it should never reach my ears--a poornegro-driver, or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and goneto the world of spirits! I can truly say that _pauvre inconnu_ as Ithen was, I had pretty nearly as high an idea of my works as I have atthis moment, when the public has decided in their favor. .. . 

"I threw off about six hundred copies, of which I got subscriptionsfor about three hundred and fifty. My vanity was highly gratified bythe reception I met with from the public; and besides, I pocketed, allexpenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came veryseasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of money, to procure a passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, theprice of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage inthe first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, for

 'Hungry ruin had me in the wind. '

"I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under allthe terrors of a jail, as some ill-advised people had uncoupled themerciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewellof my friends; my chest was on the way to Greenock; I had composed thelast song I should ever measure in Caledonia, '_The gloomy night isgathering fast_, ' when a letter from Dr. Blackwood to a friend of mineoverthrew all my schemes, by opening up new prospects to my poeticambition. "

The success of the first edition of his poems was so pronounced thatBurns soon gave up the idea of going away to Jamaica. Ayrshire wasflattered to discover that within its borders lived a genuine poet. Robert Heron, a young literary man living in that neighborhood, givesus an account of the reception of the little book of poems: "Old andyoung, high and low, grave and gay, learned or ignorant, were alikedelighted, agitated, transported. I was at that time resident inGalloway, contiguous to Ayrshire, and I can well remember how evenplowboys and maidservants would have gladly bestowed the wages theyearned most hardly, and which they wanted to purchase necessaryclothing, if they might procure the works of Burns. "

When Burns wished a second edition of his poems, he had a very pooroffer from his printer. So he went to Edinburgh to see whether hecould not make a more advantageous bargain in the Scottish capital. Hereached that famous city on the 28th of November, 1786. Here he wasfeted and banqueted, admired and criticised. In April, 1787, thesecond edition appeared. The volume was a handsome octavo. TheScottish public had subscribed very liberally, and eventually Burnsreceived 500 pounds, but Creech, his publisher, was so slow in makingpayments that Burns had to wait a long time before he received hisdue. 

Walter Scott was among the many who met Burns during his stay inEdinburgh. Scott was but a boy of fifteen, but he never forgot theglance of approval bestowed upon him by the poet. We are especiallyfortunate in having Scott's own account of the incident: "As forBurns, I may truly say, '_Virgilium vidi tantum_. ' I was a lad offifteen when he came to Edinburgh. I saw him one day at the latevenerable Professor Adam Fergusson's. Of course we youngsters satsilent, looked, and listened. The only thing I remember which wasremarkable in Burns' manner, was the effect produced upon him by aprint of Bunbury's, representing a soldier lying dead on the snow, hisdog sitting in misery on one side--on the other his widow, with herchild in her arms. These lines were written beneath:

 Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent wept her soldier slain-- Bent o'er the babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery baptized in tears. 

"Burns seemed much affected by the print: he actually shed tears. Heasked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myselfremembered that they occur in a half-forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of _The Justice of Peace_. I whisperedmy information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, whorewarded me with a look and a word, which though of mere civility, Ithen received with very great pleasure. His person was strong androbust; his manner rustic, not clownish; a sort of dignified plainnessand simplicity. His countenance was more massive than it looks in anyof the portraits. I would have taken the poet, had I not known who hewas, for a very sagacious country farmer of the old Scotch school--the_douce gudeman_ who held his own plow. There was a strong expressionof sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, andof a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally, glowed) when he spokewith feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a humanhead, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. "

XIII

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE IN SCHOOL AND COLLEGE

The following affecting narrative, written in Coleridge's person bythe tender-hearted Elia, gives the best view possible of Coleridge'sscanty and suffering commencement of life. At that time, it may bepremised, the dietary of Christ's Hospital was of the lowest:breakfast consisting of a "quarter of penny loaf, moistened withattenuated small beer in wooden piggins, smacking of the pitchedleathern jack it was poured from, " and the weekly rule giving "threebanyan-days to four meat days. "

"I was a poor, friendless boy; my parents, and those who should havecared for me, were far away. Those few acquaintances of theirs, whomthey could reckon upon being kind to me in the great city, after alittle forced notice, which they had the grace to take of me on myfirst arrival in town, soon grew tired of my holiday visits. Theyseemed to them to recur too often, though I thought them few enough. One after another they all failed me, and I felt myself alone amongsix hundred playmates. Oh the cruelty of separating a poor lad fromhis early homestead! The yearnings which I used to have towards it inthose unfledged years!. .. The warm, long days of summer never returnbut they bring with them a gloom from the haunting memory of those_whole days' leave_, when, by some strange arrangement, we were turnedout for the livelong day, upon our own hands, whether we had friendsto go to or none. I remember those bathing excursions to the New Riverwhich Lamb recalls with so much relish, better, I think, than hecan--for he was a home-seeking lad, and did not care much for suchwater-parties. How we would sally forth into the fields, and stripunder the first warmth of the sun, and wanton like young dace in thestreams, getting appetites for the noon; which those of us that werepenniless (our scanty morning crust long since exhausted) had not themeans of allaying--while the cattle and the birds and the fishes wereat feed about us, and we had nothing to satisfy our cravings; the verybeauty of the day and the exercise of the pastime, and the sense ofliberty setting a keener edge upon them! How faint and languid, finally, we would return toward nightfall to our desired morsel, halfrejoicing, half reluctant, that the hours of uneasy liberty hadexpired!

"It was worse in the days of winter, to go prowling about the streetsobjectless, shivering at cold windows of printshops, to extract alittle amusement; or haply, as a last resort, in the hope of a littlenovelty, to pay a fifty-times-repeated visit (where our individualfaces would be as well known to the warden as those of his owncharges) to the lions in the Tower, to whose _levée_, by courtesyimmemorial, we had a prescriptive right of admission. "

This melancholy and harsh life was, however, ameliorated by somecurious personal incidents. Once, for example, the solitary boy, moving along the crowded streets, fancied, in the strange vividness ofhis waking dream, that he was Leander swimming across the Hellespont. His hand "came in contact with a gentleman's pocket" as he pursuedthis visionary amusement, and for two or three minutes Coleridge wasin danger of being taken into custody as a pickpocket. On finding outhow matters really stood, however, this stranger--genial, namelesssoul--immediately gave to the strange boy the advantage of asubscription to a library close by, thus setting him up, as it were, in life. On another occasion, one of the higher boys, a"deputy-Grecian, " found him seated in a corner reading Virgil. "Areyou studying your lesson?" he asked. "No, I am reading for pleasure, "said the boy, who was not sufficiently advanced to read Virgil inschool. This introduced him to the favorable notice of the head-masterBowyer, and made of the elder scholar, Middleton by name, a steadyfriend and counselor for years. Yet at this time Coleridge wasconsidered by the lower-master, under whom he was, "a dull and ineptscholar who could not be made to repeat a single rule of syntax, although he would give a rule in his own way. " The life, however, ofthis great school, with all its injudicious liberties andconfinements, must have been anything but a healthy one. Starved andsolitary, careless of play as play, and already full of that consumingspiritual curiosity which never left him, Coleridge's devotion to theindiscriminate stores of the circulating library gave the lastaggravation to all the unwholesome particulars of his life. "Conceivewhat I must have been at fourteen, " he exclaims. "I was in a continuallow fever. My whole being was, with eyes closed to every object ofpresent sense, to crumple myself up in a sunny corner and read, read, read; fancy myself on Robinson Crusoe's island finding a mountain ofplum-cake, and eating a room for myself, and then eating it into theshapes of tables and chairs--hunger, and fancy!" . .. 

A droll incident occurred about this period of his life, which shows. .. His absolute want of ambition. The friendless boy had madeacquaintance with a shoemaker and his wife, who had a shop near theschool, and who were kind to him; and thereupon he conceived theextraordinary idea of getting himself apprenticed to his friend, whomhe persuaded to go to the head-master to make this wonderful proposal. "Od's, my life, man, what d'ye mean?" cried the master, with notunnatural indignation mingling with his amazement; and notwithstandingColeridge's support of the application, the shoemaker was turned outof the place, and the would-be apprentice chosen, "against my will, "he says, "as one of those destined for the university. " The sameirascible yet excellent master flogged the boy severely on hearingthat he boasted of being an infidel. .. . 

His next stage in life was not a shoemaker's shop in Newgate Street, but Jesus College, Cambridge, which he entered in 1791 at the age ofnineteen--the object of many high prophecies and hopes on the part ofhis school and schoolfellows, who had unanimously determined that hewas to be great and do them honor. The first thing he did, however, was alas! too common an incident: he got into debt, though not, itwould appear, for an overwhelming sum, or in any discreditable way. Solong as his friend of Christ's Hospital, Middleton, remained inCambridge, Coleridge pursued his studies with a great deal ofregularity and in his first year won the prize for a Greek ode. Butafter awhile his industry slackened, and a kind of dreamyidleness--implying no languor of the soul or common reluctance tomental work, but rather, it would seem, a disinclination to work inthe usual grooves, and do what was expected of him--took possession ofthe young scholar. "He was very studious, but his reading wasdesultory and capricious, " writes a fellow-student. "He was ready atany time to shed his mind in conversation, and for the sake of thishis rooms were a constant rendezvous of conversation-loving friends. What evenings I have spent in these rooms! What little suppers, or_sizings_, as they were called, have I enjoyed; when Aeschylus andPlato and Thucydides were pushed aside with a pile of lexicons and thelike, to discuss the pamphlets of the day! Ever and anon a pamphletissued from the pen of Burke. There was no need of having the bookbefore us; Coleridge had read it in the morning and in the evening hewould repeat whole pages _verbatim_. "

 --Adapted from _Blackwood's Magazine_. 

XIV

BYRON AS SWIMMER AND FEASTER

In 1858 Trelawney published his _Recollections of the Last Days ofShelley and Byron_. In many ways this is a remarkable book. It is theone source of information as to the last days of Shelley; concerningByron's, others have furnished material. Trelawney is suspected ofmingling some fiction with his truth, but the general tendencynowadays is to place confidence in these _Recollections_. He may notalways give us a literal report, but he has likely reproduced thespirit. He is much more sympathetic in his treatment of Shelley thanhe is in his account of Byron. Trelawney himself was a remarkablecharacter. He lived far into the time of a new generation, dying inhis eighty-ninth year in 1881. Mary Shelley, in a letter to MariaGisborne, February, 1822, describes him as "A kind of half-ArabEnglishman. .. . He is clever: for his moral qualities I am yet in thedark. He is a strange web which I am endeavoring to unravel. "

In the _Recollections_ occurs this interesting account of Byron:

Byron has been accused of drinking deeply. Our universities, certainly, did turn out more famous drinkers than scholars. In thegood old times, to drink lustily was the characteristic of allEnglishmen, just as tuft-hunting is now. Eternal swilling, and therank habits and braggadocio manners which it engendered, came to aclimax in George IV's reign. Since then, excessive drinking has goneout of fashion, but an elaborate style of gastronomy has come in tofill the void; so there is not much gained. Byron used to boast of thequantity of wine he had drunk. He said, "We young Whigs imbibedclaret, and so saved our constitutions: the Tories stuck to port, anddestroyed theirs and their country's. "

 [Illustration: LORD BYRON From the portrait by T. Phillips]

He bragged, too, of his prowess in riding, boxing, fencing, and evenwalking; but to excel in these things feet are as necessary as hands. Itwas difficult to avoid smiling at his boasting and self-glorification. Inthe water a fin is better than a foot, and in that element he did well;he was built for floating, --with a flexible body, open chest, broad beam, and round limbs. If the sea was smooth and warm, he would stay in it forhours; but as he seldom indulged in this sport, and when he did, over-exerted himself, he suffered severely; which observing, and knowinghow deeply he would be mortified at being beaten, I had the magnanimitywhen contending with him to give in. 

He had a misgiving in his mind that I was trifling with him; and oneday as we were on the shore, and the _Bolivar_ at anchor, about threemiles off, he insisted on our trying conclusions; we were to swim tothe yacht, dine in the sea alongside of her, treading water the while, and then to return to the shore. It was calm and hot, and seeing hewould not be fobbed off, we started. I reached the boat a long timebefore he did; ordered the edibles to be ready, and floated until hearrived. We ate our fare leisurely, from off a grating that floatedalongside, drank a bottle of ale, and I smoked a cigar, which he triedto extinguish, --as he never smoked. We then put about, and struck offtowards the shore. We had not got a hundred yards on our passage, whenhe retched violently, and, as that is often followed by cramp, I urgedhim to put his hand on my shoulder that I might tow him back to theschooner. 

"Keep off, you villain, don't touch me. I'll drown ere I give in. "

I answered as Iago did to Roderigo:

"'A fig for drowning! drown cats and blind puppies. ' I shall go onboard and try the effects of a glass of grog to stay my stomach. "

"Come on, " he shouted, "I am always better after vomiting. "

With difficulty I deluded him back; I went on board, and he sat on thesteps of the accommodation-ladder, with his feet in the water. Ihanded him a wineglass of brandy, and screened him from the burningsun. He was in a sullen mood, but after a time resumed his usual tone. Nothing could induce him to be landed in the schooner's boat, though Iprotested I had had enough of the water. 

"You may do as you like, " he called out, and plumped in, and we swamon shore. 

He never afterwards alluded to this event, nor to his prowess inswimming, to me, except in the past tense. He was ill, and kept to hisbed for two days afterwards. 

To return to his drinking propensities, after this digression abouthis gymnastic prowess: I must say, that of all his vauntings, it was, luckily for him, the emptiest--that is, after he left England and hisboon companions, as I know nothing of what he did there. From all thatI heard or witnessed of his habits abroad, he was and had beenexceedingly abstemious in eating and drinking. When alone, he drank aglass or two of small claret or hock, and when utterly exhausted atnight, a single glass of grog; which when I mixed it for him I loweredto what sailors call "water bewitched, " and he never made any remark. I once, to try him, omitted the alcohol; he then said, "Tre, have younot forgotten the creature comfort?" I then put in two spoonfuls, andhe was satisfied. This does not look like an habitual toper. HisEnglish acquaintances in Italy were, he said in derision, allmilksops. On the rare occasion of any of his former friends visitinghim, he would urge them to have a carouse with him, but they had grownwiser. He used to say that little Tommy Moore was the only man he knewwho stuck to the bottle and put him on his mettle, adding, "But he isa native of the damp isle, where men subsist by suction. "

Byron had not damaged his body by strong drinks, but his terror ofgetting fat was so great that he reduced his diet to the point ofabsolute starvation. He was of that soft, lymphatic temperament whichit is almost impossible to keep within moderate compass, particularlyas in his case his lameness prevented his taking exercise. When headded to his weight, even standing was painful, so he resolved to keepdown to eleven stone, or shoot himself. He said everything heswallowed was instantly converted into tallow and deposited on hisribs. 

He was the only human being I ever met with who had sufficientself-restraint and resolution to resist this proneness to fatten: hedid so, and at Genoa, where he was last weighed, he was ten stone andnine pounds, and looked much less. This was not from vanity about hispersonal appearance, but from a better motive; and as, like JusticeGreedy, he was always hungry, his merit was the greater. Occasionallyhe relaxed his vigilance, when he swelled apace. 

I remember one of his old friends saying, "Byron, how well you arelooking!" If he had stopped there it had been well, but when he added, "You are getting fat, " Byron's brow reddened, and his eyesflashed--"Do you call getting fat looking well, as if I were a hog?"and, turning to me, he muttered, "The beast, I can hardly keep myhands off him. " The man who thus offended him was the husband of thelady addressed as "Genevra, " and the original of his "Zuleika, " in the_Bride of Abydos_. I don't think he had much appetite for his dinnerthat day, or for many days, and never forgave the man who, so far fromwishing to offend, intended to pay him a compliment. 

Byron said he had tried all sorts of experiments to stay his hunger, without adding to his bulk. "I swelled, " he said, "at one time tofourteen stone, so I clapped the muzzle to my jaws, and, like thehibernating animals, consumed my own fat. "

He would exist on biscuits and soda-water for days together, then, toallay the eternal hunger gnawing at his vitals, he would make up ahorrid mess of cold potatoes, rice, fish, or greens, deluged invinegar, and gobble it up like a famished dog. On either of theseunsavory dishes, with a biscuit and a glass or two of Rhine wine, hecared not how sour, he called feasting sumptuously. Upon my observinghe might as well have fresh fish and vegetables, instead of stale, helaughed and answered:

"I have an advantage over you, I have no palate; one thing is as goodas another to me. "

"Nothing, " I said, "disagrees with the natural man; he fasts andgorges, his nerves and brain don't bother him; but if you wish tolive?--

"Who wants to live?" he replied, "not I. The Byrons are a short-livedrace on both sides, father and mother; longevity is hereditary: I amnearly at the end of my tether. I don't care for death a ----; it isher sting! I can't bear pain. "

His habits and want of exercise damaged him, not drink. It must beborne in mind, moreover, that his brain was always working at highpressure. The consequences resulting from his way of life were low orintermittent fevers; these last had fastened on him in his earlytravels in the Levant; and there is this peculiarity in malarialfevers, that if you have once had them, you are ever afterwardssusceptible to a renewal of their attacks if within their reach, andByron was hardly ever out of it. Venice and Ravenna are belted in withswamps, and fevers are rife in the autumn. By starving his body Byronkept his brains clear; no man had brighter eyes or a clearer voice;and his resolute bearing and prompt replies, when excited, gave tohis body an appearance of muscular power that imposed on strangers. Inever doubted, for he was indifferent to life, and prouder thanLucifer, that if he had drawn his sword in Greece, or elsewhere, hewould have thrown away the scabbard. 

 [Illustration: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY From a chalk drawing after the original painting by Miss Curran]

XV

SHELLEY AS A FRESHMAN

If one were to name ten of the greatest English poets beginning withChaucer and ending with Tennyson, the name of Shelley would beincluded, although he died before he was thirty years old. Hogg, afriend of Shelley's, has given us an interesting account of theirmeeting when both were freshmen at Oxford. 

"At the commencement of Michaelmas Term, " writes Hogg, "that is, atthe end of October in the year 1801, I happened one day to sit next afreshman at dinner; it was his first appearance in hall. His figurewas slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our table, where all were very young. He seemed thoughtful and absent. He atelittle and had no acquaintance with any one. I know not how we fellinto conversation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange tosay, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could notpossibly be occasion for any. " This conversation led into a heateddiscussion of the merits of German and Italian literature. When thetime for leaving the dining hall had come, Hogg invited his newacquaintance over to his rooms. During the transit the thread of theargument was lost, and while Hogg was lighting the candles Shelleyfrankly said that he was not competent to argue the point, as he hadlittle knowledge of either German or Italian literature. Then Hoggwith equal ingenuousness confessed that he knew but little of Italianand nothing of German literature. 

So the talk went merrily on. Shelley said it made little differencewhether Italian or German literature were the more worthy, for allliterature, what was it but vain trifling? What is the study oflanguage but the study of words, of phrases, of the names of things?How much better and wiser to study things themselves!

"I inquired, " says Hogg, "a little bewildered, how this was to beeffected. He answered, 'Through the physical sciences, and especiallythrough chemistry, ' and raising his voice, his face flushing as hespoke, he discoursed, with a degree of animation that far outshone hiszeal in defense of the Germans, of chemistry and chemical analysis. "While this is going on Hogg studies the youthful speaker. What mannerof man is this brilliant guest? "It was a sum of many contradictions. His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones were large andstrong. He was tall, but he stooped so much that he seemed of lowstature. His clothes were expensive and made after the most approvedmode of the day; but they were tumbled, rumpled, unbrushed. Hisgestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally evenawkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. His complexion wasdelicate and almost feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he wastanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. His features, his whole face andparticularly his head, were, in fact, unusually small, yet the lastappeared of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and infits of absence, and in the agonies (if I may use the word) of anxiousthought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed hisfingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it wassingularly wild and rough. In times when it was the mode to imitatestage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hairwas invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricitywas very striking. His features were not symmetrical (the mouth, perhaps, excepted), yet was the effect of the whole extremelypowerful. They breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vividand preternatural intelligence, that I never met with in any othercountenance. Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than theintellectual, for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, andespecially (though this will surprise many) that air of profoundreligious veneration that characterizes the best works, and chieflythe frescoes of the great masters of Florence and Rome. "

The next day Hogg pays a visit to Shelley's rooms. The furniture wasnew and the walls were freshly papered, but everything in the room wasin confusion. "Books, boots, papers, shoes, philosophical instruments, clothes, pistols, linen, crockery, ammunition, and phials innumerable, with money, stockings, prints, crucibles, bags, and boxes, werescattered on the floor in every place, as if the young chemist, inorder to analyze the mystery of creation, had endeavored first toreconstruct the primeval chaos. The tables, and especially the carpet, were already stained with large spots of various hues, whichfrequently proclaimed the agency of fire. An electrical machine, anair pump, the galvanic trough, a solar microscope, and large glassjars were conspicuous amidst the mass of matter. Upon the table by hisside were some books lying open, several letters, a bundle of newpens, and a bottle of japan ink, that served as an ink-stand, a pieceof deal, lately part of the lid of a box, with many chips, and ahandsome razor that had been used as a knife. There were bottles ofsoda-water, sugar, pieces of lemon, and the traces of an effervescentbeverage. Two piles of books supported the tongs, and these upheld asmall glass retort above an argand lamp. I had not been seated manyminutes before the liquor in the vessel boiled over, adding freshstains to the table, and rising in fumes with a disagreeable odor. Shelley snatched the glass quickly, and dashing it in pieces amongashes under the grate, increased the unpleasant and penetratingeffluvium. "

Hogg and Shelley soon became fast friends and met every evening. "Iwas enabled, " writes Hogg, "to continue my studies in the evening inconsequence of a very remarkable peculiarity. My young and energeticfriend was then overcome by extreme drowsiness, which speedily andcompletely vanquished him; he would sleep from two to four hours, often so soundly that his slumbers resembled a deep lethargy; he layoccasionally upon the sofa, but more commonly stretched upon the rugbefore a large fire, like a cat, and his little round head wasexposed to such fierce heat, that I used to wonder how he was able tobear it. Sometimes I have interposed some shelter, but rarely with anypermanent effect, for the sleeper usually contrived to turn himself, and to roll again into the spot where the fire glowed the brightest. His torpor was generally profound, but he would sometimes discourseincoherently for a long while in his sleep. At six he would suddenlycompose himself, even in the midst of an animated narrative or ofearnest discussion, and he would lie buried in entire forgetfulness, in a sweet and mighty oblivion, until ten, when he would suddenlystart up, and rubbing his eyes with great violence, and passing hisfingers swiftly through his long hair, would enter at once into avehement argument, or begin to recite verses, either of his owncomposition or from the works of others, with a rapidity and an energythat were often quite painful. During the period of his occultation Itook tea, and read or wrote without interruption. He would sometimessleep for a shorter time, for about two hours, postponing for the likeperiod the commencement of his retreat to the rug, and rising withtolerable punctuality at ten, and sometimes, though rarely, he wasable entirely to forego the accustomed refreshment. "

After supper, which Shelley would take upon awaking at ten, the twofriends would talk and read together until two o'clock. 

XVI

THE DEATH OF SHELLEY

In the Protestant cemetery at Rome one can find in an obscure place aplain stone bearing record of Percy Bysshe Shelley, and these linesfrom Shakspere's Tempest:

 Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. 

And this is the story of how Shelley happens to have a memorial in theRoman cemetery:

Shelley was a revolutionist in religion and politics, andrevolutionists are seldom popular at home. Shelley's lyric poetry isunsurpassed, but his theories in some respects will never meet withthe approval of common-sense humanity. England proved uncomfortableand so he left his country to live in other lands. In 1822 we find himwith his family and a Mr. And Mrs. Williams in Casa Magni, a Romanvilla in a cove on the bay of Spezzia. Here the poet and his friendsbecame very fond of sailing in a boat which had been made for them. The boat, which they called the Ariel, was twenty-eight feet long andeight feet broad, and this with the assistance of a lad they learnedto manage fairly well. To Shelley, whose health had been failing, theout-of-door life gave renewed vigor. 

On the eighth of July, Shelley and Williams, accompanied by asailor-lad, left the harbor of Leghorn to go home to their wives, fromwhom they had been absent for several days. They had gone to Pisa towelcome Leigh Hunt to Italy, to meet other friends (among the numberwas Byron), and to do some business. Neither Shelley, Williams, northe lad, was ever seen alive after that day. As we are indebted toHogg for the best pen-pictures of the boy Shelley, so we are indebtedto Trelawney for the best description of the closing scene. So weshall follow Trelawney's account in the main. 

Trelawney was in Leghorn and intended to accompany his friends out ofthe harbor in a separate boat, but owing to the refusal of the healthofficer of the harbor he was not allowed to go. As from his own vesselhe watched the Ariel, containing the small party happy in the thoughtthat in seven short hours they should be at home with their lovedones, his Genoese mate turned to him and said: "They are standing toomuch in-shore; the current will set them there. " "They will soon havethe land-breeze, " replied Trelawney. "Maybe, " said the mate, "she willsoon have too much breeze; that gaff topsail is foolish in a boat withno deck and no sailor on board. " Then he added as he pointed to thesouthwest, "Look at those black lines and dirty rags hanging on themout of the sky; look at the smoke on the water; the devil is brewingmischief. "

"Although the sun was obscured by mists, " Trelawney writes, "it wasoppressively sultry. There was not a breath of air in the harbor. Theheaviness of the atmosphere and an unwonted stillness benumbed mysenses. I went down into the cabin and sank into a slumber. I wasroused up by a noise overhead, and went on deck. The men were gettingup another chain-cable to let go another anchor. There was a generalstir amongst the shipping; shifting berths, getting down yards andmasts, veering out cables, hauling in of hawsers, letting go anchors, hailing from the ships and quays, boats sculling rapidly to and fro. It was almost dusk, although only half-past six o'clock. The sea wasof the color and looked as solid and smooth as a sheet of lead, andcovered with an oily scum. Gusts of wind swept over without rufflingit, and big drops of rain fell on its surface, rebounding, as if theycould not penetrate it. There was a commotion in the air, made up ofmany threatening sounds, coming upon us from the sea. Fishing craftand coasting vessels, under bare poles, rushed by us in shoals, running foul of the ships in the harbor. As yet the din and hubbub wasthat made by men, but their shrill pipings were suddenly silenced bythe crashing voice of a thunder-squall that burst right over ourheads. For some time no other sounds were to be heard than thethunder, wind, and rain. When the fury of the storm, which did notlast for more than twenty minutes, had abated and the horizon was insome degree cleared, I looked to sea anxiously, in the hope ofdescrying Shelley's boat amongst the many small craft scattered about. I watched every speck that loomed on the horizon, thinking that theywould have borne up on their return to the port, as all the otherboats that had gone out in the same direction had done. "

Then followed a period of painful suspense. Were they safe or had theygone down? On the third day Trelawney went to Pisa to ascertainwhether any one had heard anything of Shelley. "I told my fears toHunt, " he writes, "and then went upstairs to Byron. When I told himhis lip quivered, and his voice faltered as he questioned me. "

And what of the wives at Casa Magni awaiting the return of theirhusbands? Let one of the two tell the story. Mary is the wife ofShelley, and Jane is Mrs. Williams. 

"Yet I thought when he, when my Shelley returns, I shall be happy--hewill comfort me; if my boy be ill, he will restore him and encourageme. .. . Thus a week passed. On Monday, 8th, Jane had a letter fromEdward dated Saturday; he said that he waited at Leghorn for Shelley, who was at Pisa; that Shelley's return was certain; 'but, ' hecontinued, 'if I should not come by Monday, I will come in a felucca, and you may expect me on Thursday evening at furthest. '

"This was Monday, the fatal Monday, but with us it was stormy all day, and we did not at all suppose that they could put to sea. At twelve atnight we had a thunder-storm. Tuesday it rained all day and wascalm--the sky wept on their graves. On Wednesday, the wind was fairfrom Leghorn, and in the evening several feluccas arrived thence. Onebrought word they had sailed Monday, but we did not believe them. Thursday was another day of fair wind, and when twelve at night came, and we did not see the tall sails of the little boat double thepromontory before us, we began to fear, not the truth, but someillness, some disagreeable news for their detention. "

"Jane got so uneasy that she determined to proceed the next day toLeghorn in a boat to see what was the matter. Friday came and with ita heavy sea and bad wind. Jane, however, resolved to be rowed toLeghorn, since no boat could sail, and busied herself in preparation. I wished her to wait for letters, since Friday was letter-day. Shewould not, but the sea detained her; the swell rose so that no boatwould endure out. At twelve at noon our letters came; there was onefrom Hunt to Shelley; it said, 'Pray write to tell us how you gothome, for they say that you had bad weather after you sailed on Mondayand we are anxious. ' The paper fell from me. I trembled all over. Janeread it. 'Then it is all over, ' she said. 'No, my dear Jane, ' I cried, 'it is not all over, but this suspense is dreadful. Come with me--wewill go to Leghorn, we will post, to be swift and learn our fate. '

"We crossed to Lerici . .. We posted to Pisa. It must have been fearfulto see us--two poor, wild, aghast creatures, driving (like Matilda)towards the sea to learn if we were to be forever doomed to misery. Iknew that Hunt was at Pisa, at Lord Byron's house, but I thought thatLord Byron was at Leghorn. I settled that we should drive to CasaLanfranchi, that I should get out and ask the fearful question ofHunt, 'Do you know anything of Shelley?' On entering Pisa, the idea ofseeing Hunt for the first time for four years under such circumstancesand asking him such a question was so terrific to me that it was withdifficulty that I prevented myself from going into convulsions. Mystruggles were dreadful. They knocked at the door and some one calledout, 'Chi e?' It was the Guiccioli's maid. Lord Byron was in Pisa. Hunt was in bed, so I was to see Lord Byron instead of him. This was agreat relief to me. I staggered upstairs; the Guicciola came to meetme smiling, while I could hardly say, 'Where is he--Sapete alcuna cosadi Shelley?' They knew nothing; he had left Pisa on Sunday; on Mondayhe had sailed; there had been bad weather Monday afternoon; more theyknew not. "

XVII

THE SCHOOL-DAYS OF JOHN KEATS

In the village of Enfield, in Middlesex, ten miles on the North Roadfrom London, my father, John Clarke, says Charles Cowden Clarke in_The Gentleman's Magazine_, kept a school. The house had been built bya West India merchant in the latter end of the seventeenth orbeginning of the eighteenth century. It was of the better character ofthe domestic architecture of that period, the whole front being of thepurest red brick, wrought by means of molds into rich designs offlowers and pomegranates, with heads of cherubim over niches in thecenter of the building. The elegance of the design and the perfectfinish of the structure were such as to procure its protection when abranch railway was brought from the Ware and Cambridge line toEnfield. .. . 

Here it was that John Keats all but commenced, and did complete, hisschool education. He was born on the twenty-ninth of October, 1795, and he was one of the little fellows who had not wholly emerged fromthe child's costume upon being placed under my father's care. It willbe readily conceived that it is difficult to recall from the "darkbackward and abysm" of seventy-odd years the general acts of perhapsthe youngest individual in a corporation of between seventy andeighty youngsters; and very little more of Keats's child-life can Iremember than that he had a brisk, winning face, and was a favoritewith all, particularly my mother. .. . 

Keats's father was the principal servant at the Swan and Hoopstables--a man of so remarkably fine a common-sense, and nativerespectability, that I perfectly remember the warm terms in which hisdemeanor used to be canvassed by my parents after he had been to visithis boys. John was the only one resembling him in person and feature, with brown hair and dark hazel eyes. The father was killed by a fallfrom his horse in returning from a visit to the school. This detail maybe deemed requisite when we see in the last memoir of the poet thestatement that "John Keats was born on the twenty-ninth of October, 1795, in the upper rank of the middle class. " His two brothers--George, older, and Thomas, younger than himself--were like the mother, who wastall, of good figure, with large oval face and sensible deportment. Thelast of the family was a sister--Fanny, I think, much younger thanall, --and I hope still living (in 1874)--of whom I remember, when oncewalking in the garden with her brothers, my mother speaking of her withmuch fondness for her pretty and simple manners. .. . 

In the early part of his school-life John gave no extraordinaryindications of intellectual character; but it was remembered of himafterwards, that there was ever present a determined and steady spiritin all his undertakings: I never knew it misdirected in his requiredpursuit of study. He was a most orderly scholar. The futureramifications of that noble genius were then closely shut in the seed, which was greedily drinking in the moisture which made it afterwardsburst forth so kindly into luxuriance and beauty. 

My father was in the habit, at each half-year's vacation, of bestowingprizes upon those pupils who had performed the greatest quantity ofvoluntary work; and such was Keats's indefatigable energy for the lasttwo or three successive half-years of his remaining at school, that, upon each occasion he took the first prize by a considerable distance. He was at work before the first school hour began, and that was atseven o'clock, almost all the intervening times of recreation were sodevoted, and during the afternoon holidays, when all were at play, hewould be in the school--almost the only one--at his Latin or Frenchtranslation, and so unconscious and regardless was he of theconsequences of so close and persevering an application that he neverwould have taken the necessary exercise had he not been sometimesdriven out for the purpose by one of his masters. 

It has just been said that he was a favorite with all. Not the lessbeloved was he for having a highly pugnacious spirit, which, whenroused, was one of the most picturesque exhibitions--off the stage--Iever saw. One of the transports of that marvelous actor, EdmundKean--whom, by the way, he idolized--was its nearest resemblance; andthe two were not very dissimilar in face and figure. Upon oneoccasion, when an usher, on account of some impertinent behavior, hadboxed his brother Tom's ears, John rushed up, put himself in thereceived posture of offense, and, it was said, struck the usher--whocould, so to say, have put him into his pocket. His passion at timeswas almost ungovernable, and his brother George, being considerablythe taller and stronger, used frequently to hold him down by mainforce, laughing when John was in "one of his moods, " and wasendeavoring to beat him. It was all, however, a wisp-of-strawconflagration, for he had an intensely tender affection for hisbrothers and proved it upon the most trying occasions. He was notmerely the "favorite of all, " like a pet prize-fighter, for histerrier courage; but his high-mindedness, his utter unconsciousness ofa mean motive, his placability, his generosity, wrought so general afeeling in his behalf, that I never heard a word of disapproval fromany one, superior or equal, who had known him. 

In the latter part of the time--perhaps eighteen months--that heremained at school, he occupied the hours during meals in reading. Thus, his whole time was engrossed. He had a tolerably retentivememory, and the quantity that he read was surprising. He must in thoselast months have exhausted the school library, which consistedprincipally of abridgments of all the voyages and travels of any note;Mavor's collection, also his _Universal History_; Robertson'shistories of Scotland, America, and Charles the Fifth; all MissEdgeworth's productions, together with many other works equally wellcalculated for youth. The books, however, that were his constantlyrecurring sources of attraction were Tooke's _Pantheon_, Lemprière's_Classical Dictionary_, which he appeared to _learn_, and Spence's_Polymetis_. This was the store whence he acquired his intimacy withthe Greek mythology; here was he "suckled in that creed outworn;" forhis amount of classical attainment extended no farther than the_Æneid_, with which epic, indeed, he was so fascinated that beforeleaving school he had _voluntarily_ translated in writing aconsiderable portion. And yet I remember that at that earlyage--mayhap under fourteen--notwithstanding, and through all itsincidental attractiveness, he hazarded the opinion to me (and theexpression riveted my surprise), that there was feebleness in thestructure of the work. He must have gone through all the betterpublications in the school library, for he asked me to lend him someof my books, and, in my "mind's eye" I now see him at supper (we hadour meals in the school-room), sitting back on the form, from thetable, holding the folio volume of Burnet's _History of His Own Time_between himself and the table, eating his meal from beyond it. Thiswork, and Leigh Hunt's _Examiner_--which my father took in, and I usedto lend to Keats--no doubt laid the foundation of his love of civiland religious liberty. He once told me, smiling, that one of hisguardians, being informed what books I had lent him to read, declaredthat if he had fifty children he would not send one of them to thatschool. Bless his patriot head!

When he left Enfield at fourteen years of age, he was apprenticed toMr. Thomas Hammond, a medical man, residing in Church Street, Edmonton, and exactly two miles from Enfield. This arrangementevidently gave him satisfaction, and I fear it was the most placidperiod of his painful life; for now, with the exception of the duty hehad to perform in the surgery--by no means an onerous one--his wholeleisure hours were employed in indulging his passion for reading andtranslating. During his apprenticeship he finished the _Æneid_. 

The distance between our residences being so short, I gladlyencouraged his inclination to come over when he could claim a leisurehour; and in consequence I saw him about five or six times a month onmy own leisure afternoons. He rarely came empty-handed; either he hada book to read, or brought one to be exchanged. When the weatherpermitted, we always sat in an arbor at the end of a spacious garden, and--in Boswellian dialect--"we had a good talk. " . .. 

XVIII

THE HEROISM OF SIR WALTER SCOTT

When Carlyle wrote and lectured on _Heroes and Hero Worship_, he wouldhave made no mistake in selecting one of his contemporary countrymenas a fine example of the man of letters as hero. But it is one of thecharacteristics of human nature to see the heroic in the remote intime and place rather than in the near. Carlyle, had he closelyexamined the life of his Scotch neighbor, would have been forced toacknowledge that no knight battling with chivalric valor in thefiction of Sir Walter ever displayed more nobility of soul than thatdisplayed by Walter Scott in his adversity. Critics may find flaws inScott's style, but as time reveals more fully the character of the manthey are unable to find fault with the man himself. Some years ago waspublished Scott's journal. Parts of this had been published before, but, owing to the nature of some of the information, much of this hadbeen suppressed until sixty years after the death of the writer. Toquote from this journal is, perhaps, the best method of giving afirst-hand impression of the real man. He is his own revealer. Scottcalled the big book in which he from time to time records for severalyears his thoughts his "Gurnal, " because his daughter Sophia had oncespelled the word in that way. This book could be closed with a lockand key. On the title-page was written:

 As I walked by myself, I talked to myself, And thus myself said to me. (Old Song. )

Scott's poems and novels brought him much revenue. This he spent inpurchasing land. He became a Scotch "laird" owning many acres, and amost beautiful home, Abbotsford. But unfortunately he formed a badbusiness partnership. When the firm through mismanagement andspeculation, in which Scott had no part, went down in ruin, Scottfound to his surprise that he owed a vast sum. In his "Gurnal" ofSeptember 5, 1827, he wrote: "The debts for which I am legallyresponsible, though no party to this contraction, amount to £30, 000. "But although his legal responsibility was for so great a sum, he feltthat morally he was responsible for a far greater amount. When theprinting house of James Ballantyne & Co. , the publishing house ofConstable, and Hunt and Robinson, failed, they failed for upwards ofhalf a million pounds. Of this enormous total, Scott could be heldmorally responsible for one hundred and thirty thousand pounds. 

For several weeks after intimations of failure had reached Scott, helived in a state of uncertainty. On the 18th of December, 1825, hewrote a long account in his journal. It was published lately for thefirst time, appearing in the _Quarterly Review_. What a revelation ofthe man it is!

"Ballantyne called on me this morning. _Venit illa suprema dies. _ Myextremity is come. Cadell has received letters from London which allbut positively announce the failure of Hurst and Robinson, so thatConstable and Co. Must follow, and I must go with poor JamesBallantyne for company. I suppose it will involve my all. .. . I havebeen rash in anticipating funds to buy lands, but then I made from£5, 000 to £10, 000 a year, and land was my temptation. I think nobodycan lose a penny--that is my one comfort. Men will think pride has hada fall. Let them indulge their own pride in thinking that my fallmakes them higher, or seems so at least. I have the satisfaction torecollect that my prosperity has been of advantage to many, and thatsome at least will forgive my transient wealth on account of theinnocence of my intentions, and my real wish to do good to the poor. This news will make sad hearts at Darnick, and in the cottages ofAbbotsford, which I do not cherish the least hope of preserving. Ithas been my Delilah, and so I have often termed it; and now therecollection of the extensive woods I planted, and the walks I haveformed, from which strangers must derive both the pleasure and profit, will excite feelings likely to sober my gayest moments. I have halfresolved never to see the place again. How could I tread my hall withsuch a diminished crest? How live a poor indebted man where I was oncethe wealthy, and honored? My children are provided [for]; thank Godfor that! I was to have gone there in joy and prosperity to receive myfriends. My dogs will wait for me in vain. It is foolish, but thethoughts of parting from these dumb creatures have moved me more thanany of the painful reflections I have put down. Poor things, I mustget them kind masters; there may be yet those who loving me may lovemy dog because it has been mine. I must end this, or I shall lose thetone of mind with which men should meet distress. I find my dogs' feeton my knees. I hear them whining and seeking me everywhere--this isnonsense, but it is what they would do could they know how things are. Poor Will Laidlaw! Poor Tom Purdie! this will be news to wring yourheart, and many a poor fellow's besides to whom my prosperity wasdaily bread. "

After touching on some other matters he comes back toAbbotsford, --"Yet to save Abbotsford I would attempt all that waspossible. My heart clings to the place I have created. There is scarcea tree on it that does not owe its being to me, and the pain ofleaving it is greater than I can bear. "

A Mr. Skene, in whose gardens Scott while in Edinburgh about a monthlater took a walk, has left a record of a conversation with Scott. Hewrote immediately after the walk so as to record the conversation. This is what Scott said: "Do you know I experience a sort ofdetermined pleasure in confronting the very worst aspect of thissudden reverse--in standing, as it were, in the breach that hasoverthrown my fortunes, and saying, Here I stand, at least, an honestman. And God knows if I have enemies, this I may at least with truthsay, that I have never wittingly given cause of enmity in the wholecourse of my life, for even the burnings of political hate seemed tofind nothing in my nature to feed the flame. I am not conscious ofhaving borne a grudge towards any man, and at this moment of myoverthrow, so help me God, I wish well and feel kindly to every one. And if I thought that any of my works contained a sentence hurtful toany one's feelings, I would burn it. "

Scott worked so assiduously that by January, 1828, he had reduced hisdebt $200, 000. On the 17th of December, 1830, more than the half ofhis debt had been paid. On that day his creditors had a meeting duringwhich the following resolutions were passed:

"That Sir Walter Scott be requested to accept of his furniture, plate, linen, paintings, library, and curiosities of every description as thebest means the creditors have of expressing their very high sense ofhis most honorable conduct, and in grateful acknowledgment for theunparalleled and most successful exertions he has made, and continuesto make, for them. "

That the creditors of Scott would be glad to show their gratitude iseasy to believe when one learns that while Scott was paying pound forpound the other members of the firm paid their creditors less thanthree shillings to the pound. That Scott did his herculean task atgreat sacrifice is known. How much of pain and worry he endured is notso well known. At one time he writes: "After all, I have faggedthrough six pages, and made poor Wurmser lay down his sword on theglacis of Mantua--and my head aches--my eyes ache--my back aches--sodoes my breast--and I am sure my heart aches--what can duty wantmore?"

XIX

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Walter Savage Landor, whose course of life ran from 1775 to 1864, inhis old age confessed, "I never did a single wise thing in the wholecourse of my existence, although I have written many which have beenthought so. " This is the exaggeration of an old man who has beenimpressed by the frailty of human endeavor. Nevertheless, Landor is astriking illustration of the artistic temperament. He was impractical. Landor could not make a good fist. Even when angry, a frame of mind inwhich he found himself very frequently, he did not clench his fistswithout leaving his thumbs in relaxation--a sure sign, it is said, ofthe lack of tenacity of purpose and tact in practical dealings. Hewould adjust his spectacles on his forehead, and then, forgetting whathe had done, would overturn everything in his wild search for them. When he started out on a trip he would take the greatest pains toremember the key of his portmanteau, and then forget to take theportmanteau; and then on discovering the absence of the portmanteau hewould launch out into the most vehement denunciation of thecarelessness and depravity of the railroad officials, heapingobjurgations upon them, their fathers, and their grandfathers. Thenafter he had exhausted his vocabulary of invective and eased his soul, the humor of the situation would appeal to him and he would begin tolaugh, quietly at first, and then in louder and louder strains untilhis merriment seemed more formidable than his wrath. 

When Landor says that he never did a wise thing but has written many, one is led to think of his marriage. No one wrote about marriage moreseriously than Landor, no one entered upon marriage more recklessly. "Death itself, " he once wrote, "to the reflecting mind is less seriousthan marriage. The elder plant is cut down that the younger may haveroom to nourish; a few tears drop into the loosened soil, and buds andblossoms spring over it. Death is not even a blow, it is not even apulsation; it is a pause. But marriage unrolls the awful lot ofnumberless generations. " The man who could write thus impressivelyabout marriage one spring evening at Bath attended a ball. There hemet a beautiful young lady whom he admired. As soon as he set eyes onher he exclaimed, "By heaven! that's the nicest girl in the room, andI'll marry her. " He married her and was ever after unhappy. "Godforbid, " once growled Landor, "that I should do otherwise than declarethat she always _was_ agreeable--to every one but _me_. " Landor wasnot in the habit of talking about his domestic troubles, but at onetime when he was contrasting other and more agreeable marriages he washeard to say that he "unfortunately was taken by a pretty face. "

Kenyon related to a friend an incident of the Landor honeymoon that issignificant. On one occasion, it seems, the newly married couple weresitting side by side; Landor was reading some of his own verses to hisbride--and who could read more exquisitely?--when all at once thelady, releasing herself from his arm, jumped up, saying, "Oh, do stop, Walter, there's that dear delightful Punch performing in the street. Imust look out of the window. " Exit poetry forever. 

It would have been difficult for any woman to live amicably withLandor. In his youth he was suspended from college, and when he was avery old man he was fined $5, 000 for writing a libelous article. Between these two periods his life was made up of many fits ofpassion. His rustication, or suspension from Trinity College, Cambridge, came about in the following manner: One evening Landorinvited his friends to wine. His gun, powder, and shot were in thenext room, as he had been out hunting in the morning of that day. In aroom opposite to Landor's lived a young man whom Landor disliked. Thetwo parties exchanged taunts. Finally in a spirit of bravado Landortook his gun and fired a shot through the closed shutters of theenemy. Quite naturally this bit of pleasantry was not appreciated bythe owner of the shutters and complaint was lodged. When theinvestigation was made the president tried to be as lenient as hepossibly could, but his conciliatory manner was stubbornly met by theyouthful culprit. When rustication was pronounced it was hoped thatLandor would return to the college to honor it and himself by anearnest devotion to his studies. But he never returned. 

When Landor was living in Florence the Italians thought him theideally mad Englishman. He lived for a time in the Medici palace, buthis friendly relations with the landlord, a nobleman bearing thedistinguished name of the palace, had an abrupt termination. Landorimagined that the marquis had unfairly coaxed away his coachman, andhe wrote a letter of complaint. The next day in comes the struttingmarquis with his hat on in the presence of Mrs. Landor and somevisitors. One of the visitors describes the scene: "He had scarcelyadvanced three steps from the door, when Landor walked up to himquickly and knocked his hat off, then took him by the arm and turnedhim out. You should have heard Landor's shout of laughter at his ownanger when it was all over; inextinguishable laughter, which none ofus could resist. " This reminds one of the story Milnes told toEmerson, that Landor once became so enraged at his Italian cook thathe picked him up and threw him out of the window, and then exclaimed, "Good God, I never thought of those violets!"

Quite in strong contrast to the irascible side of his nature was histender love for his children, of which he had four, the last born in1825. In them he took constant delight. In their games _Babbo_, as hewas affectionately termed, was the most gleeful and frolicsome of themall. When he was separated from them he was in continual anxiety. Onone of his trips he received the first childish letter from his sonArnold. In his reply the concluding lines reveal the intense affectionof the father:

 I shall never be quite happy until I see you again and put my cheek upon your head. Tell my sweet Julia that if I see twenty little girls I will not romp with any of them before I romp with her, and kiss your two dear brothers for me. You must always love them as much as I love you, and you must teach them how to be good boys, which I cannot do so well as you can. God preserve and bless you, my own Arnold. My heart beats as if it would fly to you, my own fierce creature. We shall very soon meet. 

 Love your, BABBO. 

In literature Landor will be remembered as the author of _ImaginaryConversations_, composed during his years of retirement at Florence. In these _Conversations_ we hear the great men and women of the pastwho converse as Landor imagined they might have talked. Landor's prosestyle is admired, because of its simplicity and classic purity. Afterthe publication of the first two volumes of this work Landor wasvisited as a man of genius by Englishmen and Americans. One day Hogg, the friend of Shelley, was announced while Hare, a well-knownEnglishman, was sitting in the room. Landor said, as he considered thenames of his two visitors, that he felt like La Fontaine with all thebetter company of the beasts about him. Hazlitt was one of hisfrequent visitors. One of their reported conversations is aboutWordsworth. Upon Landor's saying that he had never seen the famousLake poet, Hazlitt asked, "But you have seen a horse, I suppose?" andon receiving an affirmative answer, continued, "Well, sir, if you haveseen a horse, I mean his head, sir, you may say you have seenWordsworth, sir. "

Emerson was desirous of seeing Landor. One of the motives that led himto take his first trip abroad was the desire to see five distinguishedmen. These men were Coleridge, Wordsworth, Landor, DeQuincey, andCarlyle. "On the 15th May, " writes Emerson in his _English Traits_, "I dined with Mr. Landor. I found him noble and courteous, living ina cloud of pictures at his Villa Gherardesca, a fine house commandinga beautiful landscape. I had inferred from his books, or magnifiedfrom some anecdotes, an impression of Achillean wrath, --an untamablepetulance. I do not know whether the imputation were just or not, butcertainly on this May day his courtesy veiled that haughty mind and hewas the most patient and gentle of hosts. "

Landor used to say somewhat loftily, "I do not remember thatresentment has ever made me commit an injustice. " And in thisconnection he related to a friend an incident of his early marriedlife, when he was living at Como, where he had for his next-doorneighbor the Princess of Wales. Landor and his royal neighbor had aquarrel arising from trespassing by the domestics of the Princess. "The insolence of her domestics, " said Landor, "was only equaled bythe intolerable discourtesy of her Royal Highness when she wasappealed to in the matter. "

Some years later when the Milan Commission was carrying on its"delicate investigation" concerning the character of the Queen, aboutwhom there had been rumors detrimental to her character, Landor wasasked to give confidential testimony against Queen Caroline. This madeLandor indignant and he replied, --"Her Royal Highness is my enemy; shehas deeply injured me, therefore I can say nothing against her, and Inever will. "

It is significant that shortly before this application for testimonywas made, George IV took an opportunity to ask Landor to dinner. "Ideclined the honor, " said the old lion, "on the plea that I had anattack of quinsy. I always have quinsy when royal people ask me todinner, " he added, laughing immoderately. 

 Ah, what avails the sceptered race, Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace!-- Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 

 Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. 

XX

LEIGH HUNT'S BUSINESS ABILITY

Sir George Murray Smith, leading member of the famous publishing houseof Smith, Elder and Company, was well acquainted with the leadingliterary men of England during an active career of sixty years. Thefollowing account of Leigh Hunt is especially entertaining:

"Business was by no means Leigh Hunt's strong point. In this respect, but not otherwise, he may have suggested Skimpole to Charles Dickens. On one of my visits I found him trying to puzzle out the abstrusequestion of how he should deduct some such sum as thirteen shillingsand ninepence from a sovereign. On another occasion I had to pay him asum of money, £100 or £200, and I wrote him a check for the amount. 'Well, ' he said, 'what am I to do with this little bit of paper?' Itold him that if he presented it at the bank they would pay him cashfor it, but I added, 'I will save you that trouble. ' I sent to thebank and cashed the check for him. He took the notes away carefullyinclosed in an envelope. Two days afterward Leigh Hunt came in a stateof great agitation to tell me that his wife had burned them. He hadthrown the envelope, with the bank notes inside, carelessly down, andhis wife had flung it into the fire. Leigh Hunt's agitation while onhis way to bring this news had not prevented him from purchasing onthe road a little statuette of Psyche which he carried, without anypaper round it, in his hand. I told him I thought something might bedone in the matter; I sent to the bankers and got the numbers of thenotes, and then in company with Leigh Hunt went off to the Bank ofEngland. I explained our business, and we were shown into a room wherethree old gentlemen were sitting at tables. They kept us waiting sometime, and Leigh Hunt, who had meantime been staring all round theroom, at last got up, walked up to one of the staid officials, andaddressing him said in wondering tones: 'And this is the Bank ofEngland! And do you sit here all day, and never see the green woodsand the trees and flowers and the charming country?' Then in tones ofremonstrance he demanded, 'Are you contented with such a life?' Allthis time he was holding the little naked Psyche in one hand, and withhis long hair and flashing eyes made a surprising figure. I fancy Ican still see the astonished faces of the three officials; they wouldhave made a most delightful picture. I said, 'Come away, Mr. Hunt, these gentlemen are very busy. ' I succeeded in carrying Leigh Huntoff, and, after entering into certain formalities, we were told thatthe value of the notes would be paid in twelve months. I gave LeighHunt the money at once, and he went away rejoicing. "

XXI

DE QUINCEY RUNS AWAY

My father died when I was about seven years old, says the author ofthe _Confessions of an Opium-Eater_, and left me to the care of fourguardians. I was sent to various schools, great and small, and wasvery early distinguished for my classical attainments, especially formy knowledge of Greek. At thirteen I wrote Greek with ease, and atfifteen my command of that language was so great, that I not onlycomposed Greek verses in lyric meters, but would converse in Greekfluently, and without embarrassment--an accomplishment which I havenot since met with in any scholar of my times, and which, in my case, was owing to the practice of daily reading off the newspapers into thebest Greek I could furnish _extempore_; for the necessity ofransacking my memory and invention for all sorts and combinations ofperiphrastic expressions, as equivalents for modern ideas, images, relations of things, etc. , gave me a compass of diction which wouldnever have been called out by a dull translation of moral essays, etc. "That boy, " said one of my masters, pointing the attention of astranger to me, "that boy could harangue an Athenian mob better thanyou or I could address an English one. " He who honored me with thiseulogy was a scholar, "and a ripe and good one, " and of all my tutors, was the only one whom I loved or reverenced. Unfortunately for me(and, as I afterwards learned, to this worthy man's greatindignation), I was transferred to the care, first of a blockhead, whowas in a perpetual panic lest I should expose his ignorance; and, finally, to that of a respectable scholar, at the head of a greatschool on an ancient foundation. This man had been appointed to hissituation by ---- College, Oxford, and was a sound, well-builtscholar, but (like most men whom I have known from that college)coarse, clumsy, and inelegant. A miserable contrast he presented, inmy eyes, to the Etonian brilliancy of my favorite master; and, besides, he could not disguise from my hourly notice the poverty andmeagerness of his understanding. It is a bad thing for a boy to be, and know himself, far beyond his tutors, whether in knowledge or powerof mind. This was the case, so far as regarded knowledge at least, notwith myself only, for the two boys who jointly with myself composedthe first form were better Grecians than the head-master, though notmore elegant scholars. .. . I who had a small patrimonial property, theincome of which was sufficient to support me at college, wished to besent thither immediately. I made earnest representations on thesubject to my guardians, but all to no purpose. One, who was morereasonable, and had more knowledge of the world than the rest, livedat a distance; two of the other three resigned all their authorityinto the hands of the fourth, and this fourth, with whom I had tonegotiate, was a worthy man, in his way, but haughty, obstinate, andintolerant of all opposition to his will. After a certain number ofletters and personal interviews, I found that I had nothing to hopefor, not even a compromise of the matter, from my guardian:unconditional submission was what he demanded, and I prepared myself, therefore, for other measures. Summer was now coming on with hastysteps, and my seventeenth birthday was fast approaching, after whichday I had sworn within myself that I would no longer be numbered amongschoolboys. Money being what I chiefly wanted, I wrote to a woman ofhigh rank, who, though young herself, had known me from a child, andhad latterly treated me with great distinction, requesting that shewould "lend" me five guineas. For upward of a week no answer came, andI was beginning to despond, when at length a servant put into my handsa double letter, with a coronet on the seal. The letter was kind andobliging; the fair writer was on the sea-coast, and in that way thedelay had arisen; she inclosed double of what I had asked, andgood-naturedly hinted that if I should _never_ repay her, it would notabsolutely ruin her. Now, then, I was prepared for my scheme: tenguineas, added to about two that I had remaining from my pocket-money, seemed to me sufficient for an indefinite length of time, and at thathappy age, if no _definite_ boundary can be assigned to one's power, the spirit of hope and pleasure makes it virtually infinite. 

It is a just remark of Dr. Johnson's (and, what cannot often be said ofhis remarks, it is a very feeling one) that we never do anythingconsciously for the last time (of things, that is, which we have longbeen in the habit of doing) without sadness of heart. This truth I feltdeeply when I came to leave ----, a place which I did not love, andwhere I had not been happy. On the evening before I left ---- forever, I grieved when the ancient and lofty schoolroom resounded with theevening service, performed for the last time in my hearing; and atnight, when the muster-roll of names was called over, and mine (asusual) was called first, I stepped forward, and passing thehead-master, who was standing by, I bowed to him, and looked earnestlyin his face, thinking to myself, "He is old and infirm, and in thisworld I shall not see him again. " I was right; I never _did_ see himagain, nor never shall. He looked at me complacently, smiledgood-naturedly, returned my salutation (or rather my valediction), andwe parted (though he knew it not) forever. I could not reverence himintellectually, but he had been uniformly kind to me, and had allowedme many indulgences, and I grieved at the thought of the mortificationI should inflict upon him. 

The morning came which was to launch me into the world, and from whichmy whole succeeding life has, in many important points, taken itscoloring. I lodged in the head-master's house, and had been allowed, from my first entrance, the indulgence of a private room, which I usedboth as a sleeping-room and as a study. At half after three I rose, and gazed with deep emotion at the ancient towers of ----, "drest inearliest light, " and beginning to crimson with the radiant luster of acloudless July morning. I was firm and immovable in my purpose, butyet agitated by anticipation of uncertain danger and troubles; and ifI could have foreseen the hurricane, and perfect hail-storm ofaffliction, which soon fell upon me, well might I have been agitated. To this agitation the deep peace of the morning presented an affectingcontrast, and in some degree a medicine. The silence was more profoundthan that of midnight, and to me the silence of a summer morning ismore touching than all other silence, because, the light being broadand strong as that of noonday at other seasons of the year, it seemsto differ from perfect day chiefly because man is not yet abroad, andthus, the peace of nature, and of the innocent creatures of God, seemto be secure and deep, only so long as the presence of man, and hisrestless and unquiet spirit, are not there to trouble its sanctity. 

I dressed myself, took my hat and gloves, and lingered a little in theroom. For the last year and a half this room had been my "pensivecitadel:" here I had read and studied through all the hours of thenight, and, though true it was that, for the latter part of this time, I, who was framed for love and gentle affections, had lost my gayetyand happiness, during the strife and fever of contention with myguardian, yet, on the other hand, as a boy so passionately fond ofbooks, and dedicated to intellectual pursuits, I could not fail tohave enjoyed many happy hours in the midst of general dejection. Iwept as I looked round on the chair, hearth, writing-table, and otherfamiliar objects, knowing too certainly that I looked upon them forthe last time. While I write this, it is eighteen years ago, and yet, at this moment, I see distinctly, as if it were yesterday, thelineaments and expressions of the object on which I fixed my partinggaze: it was a picture of the lovely ----, which hung over themantelpiece, the eyes and mouth of which were so beautiful, and thewhole countenance so radiant with benignity and divine tranquillity, that I had a thousand times laid down my pen, or my book, to gatherconsolation from it, as a devotee from his patron saint. While I wasyet gazing upon it, the deep tones of ---- clock proclaimed that itwas four o'clock. I went up to the picture, kissed it, and then gentlywalked out and closed the door forever!

XXII

MACAULAY'S CHILDHOOD

Macaulay is one of the brilliant lights of the first half of the lastcentury. Trevelyan's _Life and Letters_ of Macaulay gives us aninteresting glimpse of his childhood. When his parents moved from theheart of London into a less crowded district, Macaulay, baby though hewas, kept the early impressions of the place. 

"He remembered, " says his biographer, "standing up at the nurserywindow by his father's side, looking at a cloud of black smoke pouringout of a tall chimney. He asked if that was hell: an inquiry that wasreceived with great displeasure which at the time he could notunderstand. The kindly father must have been pained almost against hisown will at finding what feature of his stern creed it was that hadembodied itself in so very material a shape before his little son'simagination. When in after days, Mrs. Macaulay was questioned as tohow soon she began to detect in the child a promise of the future, sheused to say that his sensibilities and affections were remarkablydeveloped at an age which to her hearers appeared next to incredible. He would cry for joy on seeing her after a few hours' absence, and(till her husband put a stop to it) her power of exciting his feelingswas often made an exhibition to her friends. She did not regard thisprecocity as a proof of cleverness, but, like a foolish young mother, only thought that so tender a nature was marked for early death. 

"The new residence was in the High Street of Clapham, a morecommodious part of London than that which they had just left. "It wasa roomy, comfortable dwelling, with a very small garden behind, and infront a very small one indeed, which has entirely disappeared beneatha large shop thrown out toward the roadway by the present occupier, who bears the name of Heywood. Here the boy passed a quiet and mosthappy childhood. From the time that he was three years old he readincessantly, for the most part lying on the rug before the fire, withhis book on the floor, and a piece of bread and butter in his hand. Avery clever woman who then lived in the house as parlor-maid told howhe used to sit in his nankeen frock, perched on the table by her asshe was cleaning the plate, and expounding to her out of a volume asbig as himself. He did not care for toys, but was very fond of takinghis walk, when he would hold forth to his companion, whether nurse ormother, telling interminable stories, out of his own head, orrepeating what he had been reading in language far above his years. His memory retained without effort the phraseology of the book whichhe had been last engaged on, and he talked, as the maid said, 'quiteprinted words, ' which produced an effect that appeared formal, andoften, no doubt, exceedingly droll. Mrs. Hannah More was fond ofrelating how she called at Mr. Macaulay's, and was met by a fair, pretty, slight child, with abundance of light hair, about four yearsof age, who came to the front door to receive her, and tell her thathis parents were out, but that if she would be good enough to come inhe would bring her a glass of old spirits, a proposition which greatlystartled the old lady, who had never aspired beyond cowslip-wine. Whenquestioned as to what he knew about old spirits he could only say thatRobinson Crusoe often had some. About this period his father took himon a visit to Lady Waldegrave at Strawberry Hill, and was much pleasedto exhibit to his old friend the fair, bright boy, dressed in a greencoat with red collar and cuffs, a frill at the throat, and whitetrousers. After some time had been spent among the wonders of theOrford Collection, of which he ever after carried a catalogue in hishead, a servant who was waiting on the company in the great galleryspilled some hot coffee over his legs. The hostess was all kindnessand compassion, and when, after a while, she asked him how he wasfeeling, the little fellow looked up in her face, and replied, 'Thankyou, madam, the agony is abated. '

"But it must not be supposed his quaint manners proceeded fromaffectation or conceit, for all testimony declares that a more simpleand natural child never lived, or a more lively and merry one. He hadat his command the resources of the Common; to this day the mostunchanged spot within ten miles of St. Paul's, and which to allappearance will ere long hold that pleasant pre-eminence within tenleagues. That delightful wilderness of gorse bushes, and poplar grovesand gravel pits, and ponds great and small, was to little Tom Macaulaya region of inexhaustible romance and mystery. He explored itsrecesses; he composed, and almost believed, its legends; he inventedfor its different features a nomenclature which has been faithfullypreserved by two generations of children. A slight ridge intersectedby deep ditches toward the west of the Common, the very existence ofwhich no one above eight years old would notice, was dignified withthe title of the Alps; while the elevated island, covered with shrubs, that gives a name to the Mount pond, was regarded with infinite awe, as being the nearest approach within the circuit of his observation toa conception of the majesty of Sinai. Indeed, at this period hisinfant fancy was much exercised with the threats and terrors of theLaw. He had a little plot of ground at the back of the house, markedout as his own by a row of oyster shells, which a maid one day threwaway as rubbish. He went straight to the drawing-room, where hismother was entertaining some visitors, walked into the circle andsaid, very solemnly, 'Cursed be Sally; for it is written, cursed be hethat removeth his neighbor's landmark. '

"When still the merest child, he was sent as a day-scholar to Mr. Greaves, a shrewd Yorkshireman with a turn for science, who had beenbrought originally to the neighborhood in order to educate a number ofAfrican youths sent over to imbibe Western civilization at thefountain-head. The poor fellows had found as much difficulty inkeeping alive at Clapham as Englishmen experience at Sierra Leone;and, in the end, their tutor set up a school for boys of his owncolor, and one time had charge of almost the entire rising generationof the Common. Mrs. Macaulay explained to Tom that he must learn tostudy without the solace of bread-and-butter, to which he replied, 'Yes, Mama, industry shall be my bread and attention my butter. ' But, as a matter of fact, no one ever crept more unwillingly to school. Each several afternoon he made piteous entreaties to be excusedreturning after dinner, and was met by the unvarying formula, 'No, Tom, if it rains cats and dogs, you shall go. '

"His reluctance to leave home had more than one side to it. Not onlydid his heart stay behind, but the regular lessons of the class tookhim away from occupations which in his eyes were infinitely moredelightful and important; for these were probably the years of hisgreatest literary activity. As an author he never again had morefacility, or anything like so wide a range. In September, 1808, hismother writes: 'My dear Tom continues to show marks of uncommongenius. He gets on wonderfully in all branches of his education, andthe extent of his reading, and of the knowledge he derived from it, are truly astonishing in a boy not yet eight years old. He is at thesame time as playful as a kitten. To give you some idea of theactivity of his mind I will mention a few circumstances that mayinterest you and Colin. You will believe that to him we never appearto regard anything he does as anything more than a schoolboy'samusement. He took it into his head to write a compendium of universalhistory about a year ago, and he really contrived to give a tolerablyconnected view of the leading events from the creation to the presenttime, filling about a quire of paper. He told me one day that he hadbeen writing a paper which Henry Daly was to translate into Malabar, to persuade the people of Travancore to embrace the Christianreligion. On reading it, I found it to contain a very clear idea ofthe leading facts and doctrines of that religion, with some strongarguments for its adoption. He was so fired with reading Scott's _Lay_and _Marmion_, the former of which he got entirely, and the latteralmost entirely, by heart, merely from his delight in reading them, that he determined on writing himself a poem in six cantos which hecalled _The Battle of Cheviot_. '"

XXIII

MACAULAY BECOMES FAMOUS

In 1848 Macaulay was a famous man. He had served in India and hadwritten the first part of his _History of England_. In this year aftera lapse of nine years he again keeps a diary. From this diary we quoteextracts showing how he became famous. 

"Dec. 4th, 1848. --I have felt to-day somewhat anxious about the fateof my book. The sale has surpassed expectation: but that proves onlythat people have formed a high idea of what they are to have. Thedisappointment, if there is disappointment, will be great. All that Ihear is laudatory. But who can trust to praise that is poured into hisown ear? At all events, I have aimed high; I have tried to dosomething that may be remembered; I have had the year 2000, or even3000, often in my mind; I have sacrificed nothing to temporaryfashions of thought and style; and if I fail, my failure will be morehonorable than nine-tenths of the successes that I have witnessed. "

"Dec. 12th, 1848. --Longman called. A new edition of three thousandcopies is preparing as fast as they can work. I have reason to bepleased. Of the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_ two thousand two hundredand fifty copies were sold in the first year; of _Marmion_ twothousand copies in the first month; of my book three thousand copiesin ten days. Black says that there has been no such sale since thedays of _Waverley_. The success is in every way complete beyond allhope and is the more agreeable to me because expectation had beenwound up so high that disappointment was almost inevitable. I think, though with some misgivings, that the book will live. "

"January 11th, 1849. --I am glad to find how well my book continues tosell. The second edition of three thousand was out of print almost assoon as it appeared, and one thousand two hundred and fifty of thethird edition are already bespoken. I hope all this will not make me acoxcomb. I feel no intoxicating effect; but a man may be drunk withoutknowing it. If my abilities do not fail me, I shall be a rich man, asrich, that is to say, as I wish to be. But that I am already, if itwere not for my dear ones. I am content, and should have been so withless. On the whole, I remember no success so complete, and I rememberall Byron's poems and all Scott's novels. "

"Saturday, January 27th. --Longman has written to say that only sixteenhundred copies are left of the third edition of five thousand, andthat two thousand more copies must be immediately printed, still to becalled the third edition. .. . Of such a run I had never dreamed. But Ihad thought that the book would have a permanent place in ourliterature, and I see no reason to alter that opinion. "

"February 2d. --Mahon sent me a letter from Arbuthnot, saying that theDuke of Wellington was enthusiastic in admiration of my book. Though Iam almost callous to praise now, this praise made me happy for twominutes. A fine old fellow!"

The above selections are from Macaulay's diary, as was said. Now comeseveral from letters to a Mr. Ellis, to whom Macaulay sent many. 

 "March 8th, 1849. 

 "At last I have attained true glory. As I walked through Fleet Street the day before yesterday, I saw a copy of Hume at a book-seller's window with the following label: 'Only £2 2s. Hume's _History of England_, in eight volumes, highly valuable as an introduction to Macaulay. ' I laughed so convulsively that the other people who were staring at the books took me for a poor demented gentleman. Alas for poor David! As for me, only one height of renown remains to be attained. I am not yet in Madam Tussaud's wax-works. I live, however, in hope of seeing one day an advertisement of a new group of figures--Mr. Macaulay, in one of his own coats, conversing with Mr. Silk Buckingham in Oriental costume, and Mr. Robert Montgomery in full canonicals. "

 "March 9th, 1850. 

 "I have seen the hippopotamus, both asleep and awake, and I can assure you that, awake or asleep, he is the ugliest of the works of God. But you must hear of my triumphs. Thackeray swears that he was eye-witness and ear-witness of the proudest event of my life. Two damsels were about to pass that doorway which we, on Monday, in vain attempted to enter, when I was pointed out to them. 'Mr. Macaulay, ' cried the lovely pair. 'Is that Mr. Macaulay? Never mind the hippopotamus. ' And having paid a shilling to see Behemoth, they left him in the very moment at which he was about to display himself to them in order to see--but spare my modesty. I can wish for nothing more on earth, now that Madam Tussaud, in whose Parthenon I once hoped for a place, is dead. "

In his diary of June 30th, 1849, we find: "Today my yearly accountwith Longman is wound up. I may now say that my book has run thegauntlet of criticism pretty thoroughly. The most savage and dishonestassailant has not been able to deny me merit as a writer. All criticswho have the least pretense to impartiality have given me praise whichI may be glad to think that I at all deserve. .. . I received a notefrom Prince Albert. He wants to see me at Buckingham Palace at threeto-morrow. I answered like a courtier; yet what am I to say to him?For, of course, he wants to consult me about the Cambridgeprofessorship. How can I be just at once to Stephen and to Kemble?"

"Saturday, July 1st--To the Palace. The Prince, to my extremeastonishment, offered me the professorship, and very earnestly andwith many flattering expressions, pressed me to accept it. I wasresolute, and gratefully and respectfully declined. I should havedeclined, indeed, if only in order to give no ground to anybody toaccuse me of foul play, for I have had difficulty enough in steeringmy course so as to deal properly both by Stephen and Kemble, and if Ihad marched off with the prize, I could not have been astonished ifboth had entertained a very unjust suspicion of me. But, in truth, mytemper is that of the wolf in the fable, I cannot bear the collar, andI have got rid of much finer and richer collars than this. It would bestrange if, having sacrificed for liberty, a seat in the Cabinet andtwenty-five hundred pounds a year, I should now sacrifice liberty fora chair at Cambridge and four hundred pounds a year. Besides, I nevercould do two things at once. If I lectured well, my _History_ must begiven up, and to give up my _History_ would be to give up much morethan the emoluments of the professorship--if emolument were my chiefobject, which it is not now, nor ever was. The prince, when he foundme determined, asked me about the other candidates. "

XXIV

DICKENS WRITES THE PICKWICK PAPERS

We are always interested in the beginnings of a successful career, forhumanity with all its selfishness takes a generous pleasure in theadvancement of those who have made an honest fight for fame or wealth. The first success of Dickens came with the publication of the_Pickwick Papers_, by the publication of which the publishers, it issaid, made $100, 000, --much to their astonishment. 

We all know the early career of the famous novelist: How he passed aboyhood of poverty; how he became a stenographer, a good one, for saida Mr. Beard, "There never was such a shorthand writer, " at the timeDickens entered the gallery as a Parliament reporter; how he laterbecame a reporter for the _Morning Chronicle_. In the December numberof the _Old Monthly Magazine_ his first published story saw the light. This was in 1833, when Dickens was twenty-one. The story first wentunder the name of _A Dinner at Poplar Walk_, but it afterwards waschanged to _Mr. Mims and his Cousin_. Then came _Sketches by Boz_ in1835, and in 1836 _Pickwick_ appeared in serial form, the book comingout a year later. 

An amusing and striking illustration of the widespread interest inthe story of _Pickwick_, if we may call so rambling an account as_Pickwick_ a story, is related by Carlyle: "An archdeacon with his ownvenerable lips repeated to me the other night a strange profane story:of a solemn clergyman who had been administering ghostly consolationto a sick person; having finished, satisfactorily as he thought, andgot out of the room, he heard the sick person ejaculate, 'Well, thankGod, _Pickwick_ will be out in ten days any way!'--this is dreadful. "

We are always interested in knowing whether the author receivedadequate remuneration for his work. Literature is not a commercialventure. The man who says, "Go to, now I shall make money by my pen!"is not the one who achieves a masterpiece. Nevertheless we are glad toknow that genius is rewarded. It is more comforting to learn that Popereceived $45, 000 for his translations of Homer than that Milton got$25 for his _Paradise Lost_; that Scott received over $40, 000 for_Woodstock_, a novel written in three months, than that the author ofthe _Canterbury Tales_ two years before his death was obliged topetition the king, "for God's sake and as a work of charity, " for thegrant of a hogshead of wine yearly at the port of London. 

Did Dickens receive anything for his _Pickwick_? Mr. Chapman, one ofthe publishers, told Mr. Forster, the friend and biographer ofDickens, that there was but a verbal agreement. The publishers were topay 15 guineas for each number and as there were twenty numbers it isnot hard to estimate his receipts on such a basis. The publishers, however, were to add to this compensation according to the sale. Mr. Chapman thinks that his firm paid about 3, 000 pounds for _Pickwick_, but Mr. Forster thinks the sum was about 2, 500 pounds. While this sumbears but a small proportion to what Dickens would have received hadhe made a good bargain with his publishers, it is yet a large sum toone beginning his literary career, and must have been deeplyappreciated by Dickens, who had been so poor that he was paid 30pounds in advance for the first two numbers, so that he might "go andget married. "

_Pickwick_ was soon followed by _Oliver Twist_, and then came_Nicholas Nickleby_, and the long series of successful novels thatbrought the author both fame and money. For when Dickens died he had afortune of £93, 000. Some of this was made in America, where his"readings" were attended by great crowds. On his second tour toAmerica, after he had given thirty-seven readings, about one-half theentire number, he sent home a check for £10, 000. Some evenings he tookin $2, 000. 

One reason why Dickens is a popular novelist is that he understandsthe common emotions of humanity. He may be "stagey, " be lacking inplot, given to exaggeration, indulge in cheap pathos, but in spite ofall these defects his abounding vitality, his sympathy with the commonlot, his imagination, are of such transcendent power that his world ofreaders adores the name of Dickens. Dickens was a good man. While notclosely following the forms of religion, his life was better than thatof many who follow the letter but break the spirit. As an illustrationof his Christian belief I quote an extract from his letter to hisyoungest son, who was about to go to Australia:

 September, 1868. 

 Never take a mean advantage of any one in any transaction, and never be hard upon people who are in your power. Try to do to others as you would have them do to you, and do not be discouraged if they fail sometimes. It is much better for you that they should fail in obeying the greatest rule laid down by our Saviour than that you should. I put a New Testament among your books for the very same reasons, and with the very same hopes, that made me write an easy account of it for you, when you were a little child. Because it is the best book that ever was, or will be, known in the world; and because it teaches you the best lessons by which any human creature, who tries to be truthful and faithful to duty, can possibly be guided. .. . You will remember that you have never at home been harassed about religious observances, or mere formalities--I have always been anxious not to weary my children with such things, before they are old enough to have opinions respecting them. You will therefore understand the better that I now most solemnly impress upon you the truth and beauty of the Christian Religion, as it came from Christ Himself, and the impossibility of your going far wrong if you humbly but heartily respect it. .. . Never abandon the wholesome practice of saying your own private prayers, night and morning. I have never abandoned it myself, and I know the comfort of it. 

 [Illustration: CHARLES DICKENS]

XXV

CHARLES DICKENS AS READER

My first sight of Dickens, writes Herman Merivale in a gossipy articlein an English magazine, was characteristic enough. I was in the secondor third row of seats with some friends, at one of his readings of_Oliver Twist_. As Thackeray was a gossip on the platform, so Dickenswas an actor. Like all speakers and actors, he longed for sympathysomewhere; an unanswering audience kills us, on whichever side thefault may lie. In the days of my political measles I have harangued aLondon audience for an hour and twenty minutes when I have meant tospeak for a quarter of an hour; and in an out-of-the-way Hampshiredistrict, where I had gone on purpose to address the rurals for a sethour, I have sate down, covered with confusion, in ten minutes, notbeing able to hit on anything that interested them at all. I saw tooplainly, in all their good-natured faces, that they regarded me as thegreatest ass they had ever seen, or as an odd kind of cow gone wrong, and of no use to the three acres. Dickens's audience that night wasdull, and he became so, too. I was disappointed. His characters werenot lifelike, and his acting was not good, and got worse as he wenton. It was the inevitable law of reaction. His audience bored him, andhe began to bore me, amongst the rest. He was not "in touch" with us, that is all; and his eyes wandered as hopelessly in search of somesympathetic eye to catch them, as the gladiators of old, for mercy inthe circus. Then suddenly, at one point of his reading, he had tointroduce the passing character of a nameless individual in a Londoncrowd, a choleric old gentleman who has only one short sentence tofire off. This he gave so spontaneously, so inimitably, that thepuppet became an absolute reality in a second. I saw him, crowd, street, man, temper, and all. For I am, I may say, what is called avery good audience. I like what I like, and I hate what I hate; and onone occasion growled at the theater so audibly at what I thought somevery bad acting that I began to hear ominous cries of "Turn him out!"It was the first night of one of my own plays, Dickens's electricflash bowled me over so completely and instantly that I broke into apeal of laughter, and as we sometimes do when hard hit, kept onlaughing internally, which is half tears, and half hiccough, for sometime afterwards. Upon my word, I am laughing now, as I recall it. Itwas so funny. The audience of course glared at me with the well-knownlook of rebuke. "How _dare_ you express your feelings out loud, anddisturb us!"

But Dickens's eye--I wasn't much more than a boy, and he didn't knowme from Adam--went at once straight for mine. "Here's somebody wholikes me, anyhow, " it said. For the next few minutes he read at me, ifever man did. The sympathetic unit is everything to us. And on myword the result was that he so warmed to his work that he got thewhole audience in his hand, and dispensed with me. Only onceagain--oh, how like him it was!--he fixed me with his eye just towardsthe end of the reading, and made a short but perceptible pause. Iwondered what was coming--and soon knew. The choleric old party in thestreet had to appear for one passing instant more, and fire off onemore passing sentence. Which he did--with the same results. Goodheavens! what an actor Dickens was. 

When that reading ended--with the success which it deserved--never didthat most expressive of all human features, the eye, thank a boy moreexpressively. Over all things cultivate sympathy. If antipathy goeswith it, so much the better. If the magnet must attract, it likewisemust repel. Dickens was a magnet of the magnets; but in his case Imust confess, that when a modern specimen tells me he can't laugh athim, he makes me feel rather as Heine felt when somebody told him thathe--the somebody--was an atheist; frightened. 

. .. Dickens is perhaps best described as to my immense amusement, andby the most delicious misprint I ever saw, I found myself oncedescribed in the "Visitors' List" in an English paper abroad--"HumanMarvel, and family. " It looked like some new kind of acrobat. OfCharles Dickens's great kindnesses to me in after days, and of somepersonal experiences of his stage passion, at the end of his life, Iventured to gossip with readers of the _Bar_, some months ago, in apaper called "With the Majority. " In one sense, yes; but inanother--in what a minority, Thackeray and he!

XXVI

ON THE DEATH OF DICKENS

When Charles Dickens died the English papers and magazines were filledwith criticisms and appreciations of the great writer. It may beinteresting to glance at a few extracts from these:

From _Fraser's Magazine_. --On the eighth of June, 1870, the busiestbrain and the busiest hand that ever guided pen over paper finishedtheir appointed work, and that pen was laid aside forever. Words ofits inditing were sure of immediately reaching and being welcomed by alarger number of men and women than those of any other livingwriter--perhaps of any writer who has ever lived. 

About six o'clock on that summer evening, having done his day's workwith habitual assiduity, Charles Dickens sat down to dinner with somemembers of his family. He had complained of headache, but neither henor any one felt the least apprehension. The pain increased, the headdrooped forward, and he never spoke again. Breathing went on forfour-and-twenty hours, and then there was nothing left but . .. Dismayand sorrow. When the sad news was made public it fell with the shockof a personal loss on the hearts of countless millions, to whom thename of the famous author was like that of an intimate and dearfriend. .. . 

Anthony Trollope in _St. Paul's_. --It seems to have been but the otherday that, sitting where I now sit, in the same chair, at the sametable, with the same familiar things around me, I wrote for the_Cornhill Magazine_ a few lines in remembrance of Thackeray, who hadthen been taken from us, and when those lines appeared they werepreceded by others, very full of feeling, from his much older friend, Charles Dickens. Now I take up my pen again because Charles Dickenshas also gone, and because it is not fit that this publication shouldgo forth without a word spoken to his honor. 

It is singular that two men in age so nearly equal, in career sonearly allied, friends so old, and rivals so close, should each haveleft us so suddenly, without any of that notice, first doubting andthen assured, which illness gives; so that in the case of the one asof the other, the tidings of death's dealings have struck us a hardand startling blow, inflicting not only sorrow, but for a while thatpositive, physical pain which comes from evil tidings which aretotally unexpected. It was but a week or two since that I wasdiscussing at the club that vexed question of American copyright withMr. Dickens, and while differing from him somewhat, was wondering atthe youthful vitality of the man who seemed to have done his fortyyears of work without having a trace of it left upon him to lessen hisenergy, or rob his feelings of their freshness. It was but the otherday that he spoke at the Academy dinner, and those who heard him thenheard him at his best; and those who did not hear him, but only readhis words, felt how fortunate it was that there should be such a manto speak for literature on such an occasion. When he took farewell ofthe public as a public reader, a few months since, the public wonderedthat a man in the very prime of his capacity should retire from such acareer. But though there was to be an end to his readings, there wasnot, therefore, to be an end of his labors. He was to resume, and didresume, his old work, and when the first number of _Edwin Drood'sMystery_ was bought up with unprecedented avidity by the lovers ofDickens's stories, it was feared, probably, by none but one that hemight not live to finish his chronicle. He was a man, as we allthought, to live to be a hundred. He looked to be full of health, hewalked vigorously, he stood, and spoke, and, above all, he laughedlike a man in the full vigor of his life. .. . 

He would attempt nothing--show no interest in anything--which he couldnot do, and which he did not understand. But he was not on thataccount forced to confine himself to literature. Every one knows howhe read. Most readers of these lines, though they may never have seenhim act, --as I never did, --still know that his acting was excellent. As an actor he would have been at the top of his profession. And hehad another gift, --had it so wonderfully, that it may almost be saidthat he has left no equal behind him. He spoke so well, that a publicdinner became a blessing instead of a curse, if he was in thechair, --had its compensating twenty minutes of pleasure, even if hewere called upon to propose a toast, or to thank the company fordrinking his health. For myself, I never could tell how far hisspeeches were ordinarily prepared:--but I can declare that I haveheard him speak admirably when he has had to do so with no moment ofpreparation. 

A great man has gone from us--such a one that we may surely say of himthat we shall not look upon his like again. As years roll on, we shalllearn to appreciate his loss. He now rests in the spot consecrated tothe memory of our greatest and noblest; and Englishmen would certainlynot have been contented had he been laid elsewhere. 

XXVII

RUSKIN'S CHILDHOOD

We are fortunate in having Ruskin's own account of how he passed hischildhood days. In _Præterita_ we have his autobiography. Hisdescription of his early days runs as follows:

"I am and my father was before me a violent Tory of the old school(Walter Scott's school, that is to say, and Homer's); I name these twoout of the numberless great Tory writers, because they were my own twomasters. I had Walter Scott's novels and the _Iliad_ (Pope'stranslation), for my only reading when I was a child, on weekdays; onSunday their effect was tempered by _Robinson Crusoe_ and the_Pilgrim's Progress_, my mother having it deeply in her heart to makean evangelical clergyman of me. Fortunately, I had an aunt moreevangelical than her mother, and my aunt gave me cold mutton forSunday's dinner, which, as I much preferred it hot, greatly diminishedthe influence of the _Pilgrim's Progress_, and the end of the matterwas, that I got all of the imaginative teachings of De Foe and Bunyan, and yet--am not an evangelical clergyman. 

"I had, however, still better teaching than theirs, and thatcompulsorily, and every day of the week. 

"Walter Scott and Pope's Homer were reading of my own election, but mymother forced me, by steady daily toil, to learn long chapters of theBible by heart, as well as to read it every syllable through, aloud, hard names and all, from Genesis, to the Apocalypse, about once ayear: and to that discipline--patient, accurate, and resolute--I owe, not only a knowledge of the book, which I find occasionallyserviceable, but much of my general power of taking pains, and thebest part of my taste in literature. From Walter Scott's novels Imight easily, as I grew older, have fallen to other people's novels;and Pope might, perhaps, have led me to take Johnson's English, orGibbon's, as types of language; but once knowing the 32d ofDeuteronomy, or the 119th Psalm, the 15th of 1st Corinthians, theSermon on the Mount, and most of the Apocalypse, every syllable byheart, and having always a way of thinking with; myself what wordsmeant, it was not possible for me, even in the foolishest times ofyouth, to write entirely superficial or formal English, and theaffectation of trying to write like Hooker or George Herbert was themost innocent I could have fallen into. "

 * * * * *

"As years went on, and I came to be four or five years old he (thefather) could command a post-chaise and pair for two months in thesummer, by help of which, with my mother and me, he went the round ofhis country customers (who liked to see the principal of the house, his own traveler); so that, at a jog-trot pace, and through thepanoramic opening of the four windows of a post-chaise, made morepanoramic still to me because my seat was a little bracket in front(for we used to hire the chaise regularly for the two months out ofLong Acre, and so could have it bracketed and pocketed as we liked), Isaw all the highroads, and most of the cross ones, of England andWales, and great part of lowland Scotland, as far as Perth, whereevery other year we spent the whole summer; and I used to read the_Abbot_ at Kinross, and the _Monastery_ at Glen Farg, which I used toconfuse with 'Glendearg, ' and thought that the White Lady had ascertainly lived by the streamlet in the glen of the Ochlis, as theQueen of Scots in the island of Loch Leven. 

"To my farther benefit, as I grew older, I thus saw nearly all thenoblemen's houses in England, in reverent and healthy delight ofuncovetous admiration, --perceiving, as soon as I could perceive anypolitical truth at all, that it was probably much happier to live in asmall house, and have Warwick castle to be astonished at, than to livein Warwick castle and have nothing to be astonished at; but that, atall events, it would not make Brunswick Square in the least morepleasantly habitable, to pull Warwick castle down. "

 * * * * *

"Contented, by reason of these occasional glimpses of the rivers ofParadise, I lived until I was more than four years old in HunterStreet, Brunswick Square, the greater part of the year; for a fewweeks in the summer breathing country air, by taking lodgings in smallcottages (real cottages, not villas, so-called) either aboutHampstead, or at Dulwich, at 'Mrs. Ridley's, ' the last of a row in alane which led out into the Dulwich fields on one side, and was itselffull of buttercups in spring, and blackberries in autumn. But mychief remaining impressions of those days are attached to HunterStreet. My mother's general principles of first treatment were, toguard me with steady watchfulness from all avoidable pain or danger, and, for the rest, to let me amuse myself as I liked, provided I wasneither fretful or troublesome. But the law was, that I should find myown amusement. No toys of any kind were at first allowed, and the pityof my Croydon aunt for my monastic poverty in this respect wasboundless. On one of my birthdays, thinking to overcome my mother'sresolution by splendor of temptation, she bought the most radiantPunch and Judy she could find in the Soho bazaar, as big as a realPunch and Judy, all dressed in scarlet and gold, and that would dance, tied to the leg of a chair. I must have been greatly impressed, for Iremember well the look of the two figures, as my aunt herselfexhibited their virtues. My mother was obliged to accept them, butafterward quietly told me it was not right that I should have them, and I never saw them again. 

"Nor did I painfully wish, what I was never permitted for an instantto hope, or even imagine, the possession of such things as one saw intoyshops. I had a bunch of keys to play with, as long as I was capableonly of pleasure in what glittered and jingled, as I grew older I hada cart and a ball, and when I was five or six years old, two boxes ofwell-cut wooden bricks. With these modest, but I still think, entirelysufficient possessions, and being always summarily whipped if I cried, did not do as I was bid, or tumbled on the stairs, I soon attainedserene and secure methods of life and motion, and could pass my dayscontentedly in tracing the squares and comparing the colors of mycarpet; examining the knots in the wood of the floor or counting thebricks in the opposite houses; with rapturous intervals of excitementduring the filling of the water-cart, through its leathern pipe, fromthe dripping iron post at the pavement edge; or the still moreadmirable proceedings of the turncock, when he turned and turned tilla fountain sprang up in the middle of the street. But the carpet, andwhat patterns I could find in bed-covers, dresses, or wall papers tobe examined, were my chief resources, and my attention to theparticulars in these was soon so accurate, that when at three and ahalf I was taken to have my portrait painted by Mr. Northcote, I hadnot been ten minutes alone with him before I asked him why there wereholes in his carpet. "

 [Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING From the portrait by Field Talfourd]

XXVIII

THE MARRIAGE OF THE BROWNINGS

When Wordsworth heard of the marriage of Robert Browning to ElizabethBarrett, he is reported to have said, "So Robert Browning and MissBarrett have gone off together. I hope they understand eachother--nobody else would. " When Wordsworth said this he was an old manand like most old men unable to appreciate the new. Compared with thesimplicity of much of Wordsworth's poetry a poem like _A Death in theDesert_ might seem unintelligible; but surely the same objectioncannot be urged against the poetry of Mrs. Browning. 

The marriage of Robert Browning to Miss Barrett is the one dramaticevent in his quiet life. To one who has read his passionate and attimes fiery, unconventional poetry, the runaway, unconventionalmarriage is not unaccountable, but altogether consistent. The mannerof it was thus:

In her youth Miss Barrett became an invalid through an injury to herspine, an accident occurring while she was fixing the saddle of herriding horse. As she grew older she was confined to her room. To movefrom a bed to a sofa seemed a perilous adventure requiring a familydiscussion. Her father was a strange unaccountable man, selfish andobstinate, and passionately jealous of the affection of his children. In the meantime Miss Barrett had written poetry that attracted theattention of a kindred spirit. Robert Browning in 1845 wrote to hersaying that he had once nearly met her and that his sensations thenwere those of one who had come to the outside of a chapel of marvelousillumination and found the door barred against him. A little later hesuggested that he would like to call on her. This commonplace andaltogether natural suggestion threw the invalid into a state oftremulous disapproval. With robust insistence Robert replied, "If mytruest heart's wishes avail, you shall laugh at east winds yet as Ido. " Miss Barrett replied, "There is nothing to see in me nor to hearin me. I never learned to talk as you do in London, although I canadmire that brightness of carved speech in Mr. Kenyon and others. Ifmy poetry is worth anything to any eye, it is the flower of me. I havelived most and been most happy in it, and so it has all my colors. Therest of me is nothing but a root fit for the ground and dark. " A replysuch as this would be construed by any gentleman as a challenge. Thesubstance of Browning's reply was, "I will call at two on Tuesday. "

On May 20, 1845, they met. In September, 1846, Miss Barrett walkedquietly out of her father's house, was married in a church, andafterwards returned to her father's house as though nothing hadhappened. Between the marriage and the elopement Robert Browning didnot call at the Barrett house on Wimpole Street. One of hisbiographers says that this absence was due to an inability ofBrowning to ask the maid at the door for Miss Barrett when there nolonger was a Miss Barrett whom he wished to see. 

In passing judgment upon the elopement of this remarkable couple onemust remember that they were no longer giddy and rash youth. Browningwas thirty-four and the romantic Juliet was three years older. Againit must be remembered that the objecting father was a mostunreasonable and selfish man. The climax of his selfishness wasreached when in opposition to the advice of the physicians Mr. Barrettrefused to allow his daughter to go to Italy. "In the summer of 1846, "writes Mr. Chesterton, "Elizabeth Barrett was still living under thegreat family convention which provided her with nothing but an elegantdeathbed, forbidden to move, forbidden to see proper daylight, forbidden to see a friend lest the shock should destroy her suddenly. A year or two later, in Italy, as Mrs. Browning, she was being draggedup hill in a wine hamper, toiling up the crests of mountains at fouro'clock in the morning, riding for five miles on to what she calls 'aninaccessible volcanic ground not far from the stars. '"

Miss Mitford, the literary gossip of the period, writes a letter toCharles Bonar, in which she gives expression to an opinion concerningBrowning's poetry which is not dissimilar to the one we quoted fromWordsworth. Miss Mitford was an intimate friend of Elizabeth Barrett:

"The great news of the season is the marriage of my beloved friendElizabeth Barrett to Robert Browning. I have seen him once only, manyyears ago. He is, I hear from all quarters, a man of immenseattainment and great conversational power. As a poet I think himoverrated. .. . Those things on which his reputation rests, _Paracelsus_and _Bells and Pomegranates_, are to me as so many riddles. "

In a later letter she writes to the same correspondent: "I at MissBarrett's wedding! Ah, dearest Mr. Bonar, it was a runaway match. Never was I so much astonished. He prevailed on her to meet him atchurch with only the two necessary witnesses. They went to Paris. There they stayed a week. Happening to meet with Mrs. Jameson, shejoined them in their journey to Pisa; and accordingly they traveled bydiligence, by Rhone boat, --anyhow, --to Marseilles, thence tookshipping to Leghorn, and then settled themselves at Pisa for sixmonths. She says she is very happy. God grant it continue! I felt justexactly as if I had heard that Dr. Chambers had given her over when Igot the letter announcing her marriage, and found that she was aboutto cross to France. I never had an idea of her reaching Pisa alive. She took her own maid and her (dog) Flush. I saw Mr. Browning once. Many of his friends and mine, William Harness, John Kenyon, and HenryChorley, speak very highly of him. I suppose he is an accomplishedman, and if he makes his angelic wife happy, I shall of course learnto like him. "

The runaway match proved to be a most happy one. This is in disproofof the common thought that a poet is of so sensitive and irritable adisposition that no woman should expect a calm life with a poet. Butin this case we have two distinguished poets joining hands. Theylived in great happiness, nor was this peace and harmony purchased atthe price of servitude and humility of the one. Each respected theother. Their romantic passion was based on a spiritual affinity. Thelove letters of the Brownings may have some degree of obscurity, butit should be said that the obscurity is one of expression, not theobscurity of misunderstanding in the sense in which some of theCarlyle letters are obscure. The list of literary men whose marriageshave proved unhappy is not so long and distinguished as is commonlysupposed. Milton, Landor, Coleridge, Shelley, Byron, and Ruskin areconspicuous examples of men who made shipwreck of marriage, but incontrast shine forth the names of Browning, Tennyson, Wordsworth, andShakspere, for there is no evidence against the belief thatShakspere's marriage was a happy one; then add to these the Americannames, Longfellow, Lowell, Emerson, Hawthorne, and Holmes, and thelist is still incomplete. 

In verse Mrs. Browning has most exquisitely expressed the power oflove to transform the gloom of her sick-room into the wholesomesunshine of life, --

 I saw in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turn had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware, So weeping, how a mystic shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; And a voice said in mastery, while I strove, "Guess now who holds thee?"--"Death!" I said. But, there, The silver answer rang. "Not Death, but Love. "

XXIX

ROBERT BROWNING

Shortly after Browning's death a young man published his recollectionsof the poet in an English magazine. The extracts from that articlewill help one to appreciate the kindliness of the great poet. 

"My first meeting with Browning came about in this wise. I was sittingin the studio of a famous sculptor, who, kindly forgetful of myprovincial rawness, was entertaining me with anecdotes of his greatcontemporaries; amongst them, Browning. To name him was to undo theflood-gates of my young enthusiasm. Would my sculptor friend help meto meet the poet, whose teaching had been my only dogma? 'Oh, ' said myfriend, 'that's easy. Write to him--he is the most amiable fellow inthe world--and tell him about yourself, and tell him how much you wantto know him. Say, if you like, that you are a friend of mine. ' Theadvice seemed simple but useless. I felt that not even the portfolioof unpublished poems which the imaginative eye might have beheldpalpable under my arm could so fortify my modesty. But my friendassured me that Browning would not be offended, so, after waiting someweeks for my crescent courage, I wrote. .. . 

"I was taken up to his study and shown in. The first thing that struckme was that he had built up a barrier of books around his table, perhaps because he feared a too practical enthusiasm. Huge heaps ofbooks lay on the floor, the chairs, the table, and at first I thoughtthe room otherwise unoccupied. But suddenly a dapper little figureemerged from a huge armchair by the fire, and stepped briskly acrossthe room. For a moment I was bewildered. The poet's face was familiarin photographs, but I had somehow imagined him a tall, gaunt man. Irecovered myself to find him standing before me, holding both my handsand saying, 'Now this is really very kind of you, to come so far justto see an old man like me. ' Then he dragged up a companion chair andforced me into it, standing for some moments by my side, with his handon my shoulder. Then he sat down and said, 'Well, tell me all aboutyourself. Have you not brought some of your poems to show me?' Ofcourse I had not. I wanted to see him and talk of his work. But for awhile he would not let me do so. 'We'll talk about me later, if youlike, though I'm rather tired of the subject, ' he said, and proceededto question me pretty closely about my aim and work. Then he sat andthought awhile, then came across to me and said, 'Do you know that Iwas nearly fifty before I made any money out of my writings? That'sthe truth, and you will understand my reluctance to advise any one toembark on such a cruel career. But--if you really mean to go in forit--I would do anything I could to shorten your time of waiting. Soyou must just send me some of your work, that I may give you my candidopinion, if you think it's worth having. And now come and see mybooks. '

. .. "We went down to lunch, and I was introduced to the poet's sister, who is, I was instantly ready to aver, the most charming little ladyin the world. I don't remember much of the talk at lunch--except thatit turned on Ruskin and his art views, with which latter, it seemed tome, Browning had not much sympathy. He told me two anecdotes designedto prove Ruskin's technical inaccuracy; one relating to MichaelAngelo, the other to Browning's own exquisite poem, _Andrea delSarto_. 'But never mind, ' said Browning, 'he writes like an angel. '

"Lunch was finished, and my host apologized for having to turn me out, as he was obliged to attend some 'preposterous meeting, ' he said. Iwas standing in the hall, saying good-by, when suddenly he turned andran up-stairs. Presently he returned, bringing with him a copy of hiswife's poems. 'Will you take this as a record of what I hope is onlythe first of many meetings?' he said. 'I can't find any of my own inthat muddle upstairs, but I would rather you would have this than anyof mine. ' Yes, I took it, as proud as a boy could be who receives suchan honor from his chief idol; prouder than I shall ever be again as Iread the inscription: 'With the best wishes and regards of RobertBrowning. ' And I went away after he had made me promise--as though itwere a thing I might be unwilling to do--to let him know when I shouldbe next in town. 

. .. "I called again at the beautiful house in De Vere Gardens. Thepoet had just come in, he told me, from a meeting of the committeefor the memorial to Matthew Arnold, and he was evidently verydepressed by the sad thoughts which had come upon him of his 'dear oldfriend, Mat. ' 'I have been thinking all the way home, ' he said, 'ofhis hardships. He told me once, when I asked him why he had written nopoetry lately, that he could not afford to do it; but that, when hehad saved enough, he intended to give up all other work, and go backto poetry. I wonder if he has gone back to it _now_. ' Here Browning'svoice shook, and he was altogether more deeply moved than I had everseen him. 'It's very hard, isn't it?' he went on, 'that a uselessfellow like me should have been able to give up all his life toit--for, as I think I told you, my father helped me to publish myearly books--while a splendid poet like Arnold actually could notafford to write the poetry we wanted of him. '

. .. "The last visit I paid to Browning was short enough, but since it_was_ the last, and was marked by one of the most graceful acts everdone to me, I may record it as the conclusion of these memories. Hehad written inviting me to call soon, but without naming a day orhour. 'If I should happen to be engaged, ' he had said, 'I know thatyour kindness will understand and forgive me. ' So I called on thefirst morning when I was free for an hour. He came across the roomwith his accustomed heartiness of voice and hand. 'But, my dear boy, why did you come to-day? In ten minutes I have an important businessappointment which I _must_ keep. ' The ten minutes went all too soon, and I took my hat to go. He was profuse, but plainly sincere, in hisapologies for turning me out, and made me promise to come again at aspecified hour. I had hardly left the door, when I heard the scurry offootsteps and his voice calling me. I turned and saw him, hatless, atthe foot of the steps. 'One moment, ' he cried; 'I can't let you gotill you tell me again that you are not offended, and I shan't believe_that_ till you promise once again to come. Now, promise'--holdingboth my hands. Of course I promised, wondering how many smaller menwould have shown the same courtesy. For some reason on my part, whichI now forget, that appointment was never kept, and I saw him no more. 

"As I stood in Poet's Corner that bitter day of last January, and sawhim put to rest, I could not but think of him as I had seen him last, with the sunlight on his white hair, and I felt his warm hands, andheard his kindly voice saying, 'Now, promise!' and I could but thinkof that meeting as a tryst not broken, but deferred. And as I thoughtagain of that life, so rich, so vivid, so complete; of that strongsoul which looked ever forth, and saw promise of clear awaking tosomething nobler than the sweetest dream, I knew that here, at least, was one to whom death could do no wrong. "

 --Adapted from _Littell's Living Age_. 

 [Illustration: ALFRED TENNYSON From a photograph from life]

XXX

KNIGHT'S REMINISCENCE OF TENNYSON

William Knight, a celebrated Scotch professor and the great expounderof the life and poetry of Wordsworth, in 1890 spent two days withTennyson at Farringford. In an English magazine he has published hisreminiscence of that visit. After relating the feelings of respect andthe reverential sentiment with which he approached the place he says:"In the avenue leading to the house, the spreading trees just openinginto leaf, with spring flowers around and beneath--yellow cowslips andblue forget-me-nots--and the song of birds in the branches overhead, seemed a fitting prelude to all that followed. Shortly after I wasseated in the ante-room, the poet's son appeared, and, as his fatherwas engaged, he said, 'Come and see my mother. ' We went into thedrawing-room, where the old lady was reclining on a couch. Immediatelythe lines beginning 'Such age, how beautiful' came into mind. No onecould ever forget his first sight of Lady Tennyson, her graciousness, and the radiant though fragile beauty of old age. Both her eye and hervoice had an inexpressible charm. She inquired with much interest forthe widow of one of my colleagues at the University, who used formerlyto live in the island, close to Farringford, and whose family werefriends as well as near neighbors. Soon afterwards Tennyson entered, and almost at once proposed that we should go out of doors. After ashort stroll on the lawn under the cedars, we went into the 'carelessordered garden, ' walked round it, and then sat down in the smallsummer-house. It is a quaint rectangular garden, sloping to the west, where nature and art blend happily, --orchard trees, and old-fashionedflower-beds, with stately pines around, giving to it a sense ofperfect rest. This garden is truly a 'haunt of ancient peace. ' Leftthere alone with the bard for some time, I felt that I sat in thepresence of one of the Kings of Men. His aged look impressed me. Therewas the keen eagle eye, and, although the glow of youth was gone, thestrength of age was in its place. The lines in his face were like thefurrows in the stem of a wrinkled oak-tree, but his whole bearingdisclosed a latent strength and nobility, a reserve of power, combinedwith a most courteous grace of manner. I was also struck by thenegligé air of the man, so different from that of Browning or Arnoldor Lowell. .. . 

"We talked much of the sonnet. He thought the best in the languagewere Milton's, Shakspere's, and Wordsworth's; after these three thoseby his own brother Charles. He said, 'I at least like my brother'snext to those by the "three immortals. "' . .. 

"He had no great liking, he said, for arranging the poets in ahierarchy. He found so much that surpassed him in different ways inall the great ones; but he thought that Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Virgil, Dante, Shakspere, and Goethe, --these seven, --were thegreatest of the great, up to the year 1800. They are not all equal inrank, and even in the work of that heptarchy of genius, there weretrivial things to be found. .. . 

"Just at this stage of our talk Mrs. Hallam Tennyson, Mrs. DouglasFreshfield, and her daughter came up the garden-walk to thesummer-house. Miss Freshfield wore a hat on which was an artificialflower, a lilac-branch. It at once caught Tennyson's eye. There was alilac-tree in bloom close at hand, and he said, 'What is that you arewearing? It's a flowery lie, it's a speaking mendacity. ' He asked howshe could wear such a thing in the month of May! We rose from thebower, and all went down the garden-walk to see the fig-tree at thefoot of it, and sundry other things at the western entrance-door, where Miss Kate Greenaway was painting. We returned along a twistingalley under the rich green foliage of elms and ilexes. .. . 

"Listening to the wind in the trees and the sound of runningwater--although it was the very tiniest of rillets--led us away fromphilosophy, and he talked of Sir Walter Scott, characterizing him asthe greatest novelist of all time. He said, 'What a gift it was thatScotland gave to the world in him. And your Burns! He is supremeamongst your poets. ' He praised Lockhart's _Life of Scott_, as one ofthe finest of biographies; and my happening to mention an anecdote ofScott from that book led to our spending the greater part of the restof our walk in the telling of stories. Tennyson was an admirablestoryteller. He asked me for some good Scotch anecdotes, and I gavehim some, but he was able to cap each of them with a better one ofhis own--all of which he told with arch humor and simplicity. 

"He then told some anecdotes of a visit to Scotland. After he had leftan inn in the island of Skye, the landlord was asked, 'Did he know whohad been staying in his house? It was the poet Tennyson. ' He replied, 'Lor', to think o' that! and sure I thoucht he was a shentleman!' NearStirling the same remark was made to the keeper of the hotel where hehad stayed. 'Do you ken who you had wi' you t' other night?' 'Naa, buthe was a pleesant shentleman. ' 'It was Tennyson, the poet. ' 'An' whatmay _he_ be?' 'Oh, he is the writer o' verses such as you see i' thepapers. ' 'Noo, to think o' that, jest a pooblic writer, an' I gied himma best bedroom!' Of Mrs. Tennyson, however, the landlord remarked, 'Oh, but _she_ was an angel!'

"I have said that the conversational power of Tennyson struck me quiteas much as his poetry had done for forty years. To explain this I mustcompare it with that of some of his contemporaries. It was not likethe meteoric flashes and fireworks of Carlyle's talk, which sometimesdazzled as much as it instructed, and it had not that torrent-rush inwhich Carlyle so often indulged. It was far more restrained. It hadneither the continuousness nor the range of Browning's many-sidedconversation, nor did it possess the charm of the etherealvisionariness of Newman's. It lacked the fullness and consummate sweepof Mr. Buskin's talk, and it had neither the historic range andbrilliance of Dean Stanley's, nor the fascinating subtlety--theelevation and the depth combined--of that of the late F. D. Maurice. _But_ it was clear as crystal, and calm as well as clear. It was terseand exact, precise and luminous. Not a word was wasted and everyphrase was suggestive. Tennyson did not monopolize conversation. Hewished to know what other people thought, and therefore to hear themstate it, that he might understand their position and ideas. But inall his talk on great problems, he at once got to their essence, sounding their depths with ease, or, to change the illustration, heseized the kernel, and let the shell and fragments alone. There was awonderful simplicity allied to his clear vision and his strength. Hewas more child-like than the majority of his contemporaries, and alongwith this there was--what I have already mentioned--_a great reserveof power_. His appreciation of other workers belonging to his time wasremarkable. Neither he nor Browning disparaged their contemporaries, as Carlyle so often did, when he spotted their weaknesses, and putthem in the pillory. From first to last, Tennyson seemed to looksympathetically on all good works, and he had a special veneration forthe strong silent thinkers and workers. 

"Tennyson appreciated the work of Darwin and Spencer far more thanCarlyle did, and many of the ideas and conclusions of modern scienceare to be found in his poetry. Nevertheless he knew the limitation ofscience, and he held that it was the noble office of poetry, philosophy, and religion combined to supplement and finally totranscend it. "

XXXI

EMERSON ON CARLYLE AND TENNYSON

On Christmas day, 1832, Emerson sailed out of Boston harbor to pay avisit to Europe. His health needed a change of work and scene. Hiswife had died, he had separated from his congregation, he manifestlywas in need of some recreation, and so his friends had advised him totake a trip abroad. On the 2d of February he landed at Malta. Fromthere he traveled through Italy and finally entered England, ready tomake the acquaintance of English celebrities whom he had long admired. 

He writes in his journal: "Carlisle in Cumberland, Aug. 26. I am justarrived in merry Carlisle from Dumfries. A white day in my years. Ifound the youth I sought in Scotland, and good and wise and pleasanthe seems to me, and his wife a most accomplished, agreeable woman. Truth and peace and faith dwell with them and beautify them. I neversaw more amiableness than is in his countenance. "

This passage, of course, refers to his visit to Carlyle, to visit whomEmerson had driven over from Dumfries to Craigenputtock, where Carlylehad been living for the last five years. In this connection it isinteresting to read what the man visited had to say about hisvisitor: "That man, " Carlyle said to Lord Houghton, "came to see me. Idon't know what brought him, and we kept him one night, and then heleft us. I saw him go up the hill; I didn't go with him to see himdescend. I preferred to watch him mount and vanish like an angel. "

 [Illustration: RALPH WALDO EMERSON From a wood engraving of a life photograph]

In writing of this interview, Mr. Cabot, one of the biographers ofEmerson, says: "To Emerson the interview was a happy one, andgratified the chief wish he had in coming to England, though he didnot find all that he had sought. He had been looking for a master, butin the deepest matters Carlyle, he found, had nothing to teach him. 'My own feeling, ' he says in a letter to Mr. Ireland a few daysafterwards, 'was that I had met with men of far less power who had gotgreater insight into religious truth. ' But he had come close to theaffectionate nature and the nobility of soul that lay behind the cloudof whim and dyspepsia, and he kept to that, and for the rest, confinedhis expectations thenceforth to what Carlyle had to give. 'Thegreatest power of Carlyle, ' he afterwards wrote, 'like that of Burke, seems to me to reside in the form. Neither of them is a poet, born toannounce the will of the god, but each has a splendid rhetoric toclothe the truth. '"

During this first visit Emerson dined with Lafayette and a hundredAmericans. By the time he made his second visit Emerson was a far moredistinguished man than during his first trip. His second visit wasmade in 1847. This time he was a lion among men. He again calls on theCarlyles. This time the door is opened by Jane. 

"They were very little changed (he writes) from their old selves offourteen years ago, when I left them at Craigenputtock. 'Well, ' saidCarlyle, 'here we are, shoveled together again. ' The flood-gates ofhis talk are quickly opened and the river is a great and constantstream. We had large communication that night until nearly oneo'clock, and at breakfast next morning it began again. At noon orlater we went together, Carlyle and I, to Hyde Park and the palaces, about two miles from here, to the National Gallery, and to theStrand--Carlyle melting all Westminster and London down into his talkand laughter as he walked. We came back to dinner at five or later, then Dr. Carlyle came in and spent the evening, which again was longby the clock, but had no other measure. Here in this house webreakfast about nine; Carlyle is very apt, his wife says, to sleeptill ten or eleven, if he has no company. An immense talker he is, andaltogether as extraordinary in his conversation as in his writing--Ithink even more so. You will never discover his real vigor and range, or how much more he might do than he has ever done, without seeinghim. I find my few hours' discourse with him in Scotland, long since, gave me not enough knowledge of him, and I have now at last been takenby surprise. .. . Carlyle and his wife live on beautiful terms. Nothingcould be more engaging than their ways, and in her book-case all hisbooks are inscribed to her, as they came, from year to year, each withsome significant lines. "

In another place he writes:

"I had good talk with Carlyle last night. He says over and over foryears, the same thing. Yet his guiding genius is his moral sense, hisperception of the sole importance of truth and justice, and he toosays that there is properly no religion in England. He is quitecontemptuous about _Kunst_ (art) also, in Germans, or English, orAmericans. .. . His sneers and scoffs are thrown in every direction. Hebreaks every sentence with a scoffing laugh--'windbag, ' 'monkey, ''donkey, ' 'bladder;' and let him describe whom he will, it is always'poor fellow. ' I said 'What a fine fellow you are to bespatter thewhole world with this oil of vitriol!' 'No man, ' he replied, 'speakstruth to me. ' I said, 'See what a crowd of friends listen to andadmire you. ' 'Yes, they come to hear me, and they read what I write;but not one of them has the smallest intention of doing thesethings. '"

While Emerson was in London he was elected to membership in theAthenæum Club, during his stay in England. Here he had the opportunityof meeting many famous men. He writes:

"Milnes and other good men are always to be found there. Milnes is themost good-natured man in England, made of sugar; he is everywhere andknows everything. He told of Landor that one day, in a toweringpassion, he threw his cook out of the window, and then presentlyexclaimed, 'Good God, I never thought of those violets!' The last timehe saw Landor he found him expatiating on our custom of eating incompany, which he esteems very barbarous. He eats alone, withhalf-closed windows, because the light interferes with the taste. Hehas lately heard of some tribe in Crim Tartary who have the practiceof eating alone, and these he extols as much superior to theEnglish. .. . Macaulay is the king of diners-out. I do not know when Ihave seen such wonderful vivacity. He has the strength of ten men, immense memory, fun, fire, learning, politics, manners, and pride, andtalks all the time in a steady torrent. You would say he was the besttype of England. "

Of Tennyson he writes: "I saw Tennyson, first at the house of CoventryPatmore, where we dined together. I was contented with him at once. Heis tall and scholastic looking, no dandy, but a great deal of plainstrength about him, and though cultivated, quite unaffected. Quiet, sluggish sense and thought; refined, as all English are, andgood-humored. There is in him an air of great superiority that is verysatisfactory. He lives with his college set, . .. And has the air ofone who is accustomed to be petted and indulged by those he liveswith. Take away Hawthorne's bashfulness, and let him talk easily andfast, and you would have a pretty good Tennyson. I told him that hisfriends and I were persuaded that it was important to his health tomake an instant visit to Paris, and that I was to go on Monday if hewas ready. He was very good-humored, and affected to think that Ishould never come back alive from France; it was death to go. But hehad been looking for two years for somebody to go to Italy with, andwas ready to set out at once, if I would go there. .. . He gave me acordial invitation to his lodgings (in Buckingham Palace), where Ipromised to visit him before I went away. .. . I found him at home inhis lodgings, but with him was a clergyman whose name I did not know, and there was no conversation. He was sure again that he was taking afinal farewell of me, as I was going among the French bullets, butpromised to be in the same lodgings if I should escape alive. .. . Carlyle thinks him the best man in England to smoke a pipe with, andused to see him much; had a place in his little garden, on the wall, where Tennyson's pipe was laid up. "

XXXII

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS OF MAX MUELLER

Another poet whom I knew at Oxford as an undergraduate, and whom Iwatched and admired to the end of his life, was Matthew Arnold. He wasbeautiful as a young man, strong and manly, yet full of dreams andschemes. His Olympian manners began even at Oxford; there was no harmin them, they were natural, not put on. The very sound of his voiceand the wave of his hand were Jovelike. .. . Sometimes at publicdinners, when he saw himself surrounded by his contemporaries, most ofthem judges, bishops, and ministers, he would groan over the drudgeryhe had to go through every day of his life in examining dirtyschool-boys and school-girls. But he saw the fun of it, and laughed. What a pity it was that his friends--and he had many--could find nobetter place for him. Most of his contemporaries rose to high positionin Church and State, he remained to the end an examiner of elementaryschools. Of course it may be said that like so many of his literaryfriends, he might have written novels and thus eked out a living bypotboilers of various kinds. But there was something nobler andrefined in him which restrained his pen from such work. Whatever hegave to the world was to be perfect, as perfect as he could make it, and he did not think that he possessed the talent for novels. Hissaying that "no Arnold can ever write a novel" is well known, but ithas been splendidly falsified of late by his own niece. Arnold was adelightful man to argue with, not that he could easily be convincedthat he was wrong, but he never lost his temper, and in the mostpatronizing way he would generally end by, "Yes, yes! my good fellow, you are quite right, but, you see, my view of the matter is different, and I have little doubt it is the true one!" This went so far thateven the simplest facts failed to produce any impression on him. .. . 

Ruskin often came to spend a few days with his old friends, and asuncompromising and severe as he could be when he wielded his pen, hewas always most charming in conversation. He never, when he was withhis friends, claimed the right of speaking with authority, even on hisown special subjects, as he might well have done. It seemed to be hispen that made him say bitter things. .. . He was really the mosttolerant and agreeable man in society. He could discover beauty whereno one else saw it, and make allowance where others saw no excuse. Iremember him as diffident as a young girl, full of questions, andgrateful for any information. Even on art topics I have watched himlistening almost deferentially to others who laid down the law in hispresence. His voice was always most winning, and his language simplyperfect. He was one of the few Englishmen I knew who, instead oftumbling out their sentences like so many portmanteaus, bags, tugs, and hat-boxes from an open railway van, seemed to take a real delightin building up his sentences, even in familiar conversation, so as tomake each deliverance a work of art. .. . 

And what a beautiful mind his was, and what lessons of beauty he hastaught us all. At the same time, he could not bear anythingunbeautiful, and anything low or ignoble in men revolted him and madehim thoroughly unhappy. I remember once taking Emerson to lunch withhim, in his rooms in Corpus Christi College. Emerson was an old friendof his, and in many respects a cognate soul. But some quiteindifferent subject turned up, a heated discussion ensued, and Ruskinwas so upset that he had to quit the room and leave us alone. Emersonwas most unhappy, and did all he could to make peace, but he had toleave without a reconciliation. .. . 

Another though less frequent visitor to Oxford was Tennyson. His firstvisit to our house was rather alarming. We lived in a small house inHigh Street, nearly opposite Magdalen College, and our establishmentwas not calculated to receive sudden guests, particularly a poetlaureate. He stepped in one day during the long vacation, when Oxfordwas almost empty. Wishing to show the great man all civility, we askedhim to dinner that night and breakfast the next morning. At that timealmost all the shops were in the market, which closed at one o'clock. My wife, a young housekeeper, did her best for our unexpected guest. He was known to be a gourmand, and at dinner he was evidently put outby finding the sauce with the salmon was not the one he preferred. Hewas pleased, however, with the wing of a chicken, and said it was theonly advantage he got from being a poet laureate, that he generallyreceived the liver-wing of a chicken. The next morning at breakfast, we had rather plumed ourselves on having been able to get a dish ofcutlets, and were not a little surprised when our guest arrived, tosee him whip off the cover of a hot dish, and to hear the exclamation, "Mutton chops! the staple of every bad inn in England. " However, thesewere but minor matters, though not without importance in the eyes of ayoung wife to whom Tennyson had been like one of the immortals. He wasfull of interest and inquiries about the East, more particularly aboutIndian poetry, and I believe it was then that I told him that therewas no rhyme in Sanskrit poetry, and ventured to ask him why thereshould be in English. He was not so offended as Samuel Johnson seemsto have been, who would probably have answered my question by "You area fool, sir; use your own judgment, " while Tennyson made the verysensible answer that rhyme assisted the memory. .. . 

It was generally after dinner . .. That Tennyson began to thaw, and totake a more active part in conversation. People who have not known himthen, have hardly known him at all. During the day he was often verysilent and absorbed in his own thoughts, but in the evening he took anactive part in the conversation of his friends. His pipe was almostindispensable to him, and I remember one time when I and severalfriends were staying at his house, the question of tobacco turned up. I confessed that for years I had been a perfect slave to tobacco, sothat I could neither read nor write a line without smoking, but thatat last I had rebelled against the slavery, and had entirely given uptobacco. Some of his friends taunted Tennyson that he could never giveup tobacco. "Anybody can do that, " he said, "if he chooses to do it. "When his friends still continued to doubt and to tease him, "Well, " hesaid, "I shall give up smoking from to-night. " The very same evening Iwas told that he threw his tobacco and his pipes out of the window ofhis bedroom. The next day he was most charming, though somewhatself-righteous. The second day he became very moody and captious, thethird day no one knew what to do with him. But after a disturbed nightI was told that he got out of bed in the morning, went quietly intothe garden, picked up one of his broken pipes, stuffed it with theremains of the tobacco scattered about, and then having had a fewpuffs, came to breakfast, all right again. 

He once very kindly offered to lend me his house in the Isle of Wight. "But mind, " he said, "you will be watched from morning till evening. "This was, in fact, his great grievance, that he could not go outwithout being stared at. Once taking a walk with me and my wife on thedowns behind his house, he suddenly started, left us, and ran home, simply because he had descried two strangers coming towards us. 

I was told that he once complained to the queen, and said that hecould no longer stay in the Isle of Wight, on account of the touristswho came to stare at him. The queen, with a kindly irony, remarkedthat she did not suffer much from that grievance, but Tennyson notseeing what she meant, replied, "No, madam, and if I could clap asentinel wherever I liked, I should not be troubled either. "

It must be confessed that people were very inconsiderate. Rows oftourists sat like sparrows on the paling of his garden, waiting forhis appearance. The guides were actually paid by sight-seers, particularly by those from America, for showing them the great poet. Nay, they went so far as to dress up a sailor to look like Tennyson, and the result was that, after their trick had been found out, thetourists would walk up to Tennyson and ask him, "Now, are you the realTennyson?" This, no doubt, was very annoying, and later on LordTennyson was driven to pay a large sum for some useless downs near hishouse, simply in order to escape from the attentions of admiringtravelers. 

XXXIII

THE EARLY EDUCATION OF JOHN STUART MILL

At an age when most children are playing with a Noah's Ark or a doll, John Stuart Mill was initiated into the mysteries of the Greeklanguage. "I have no remembrance of the time when I began to learnGreek, " writes Mill, "I have been told that it was when I was threeyears old. " Latin was not begun until his eighth year. By that time hehad read in Greek, --Æsop, the Anabasis, the whole of Herodotus, theCyropædia, the Memorabilia, parts of Diogenes Laertius, and of Lucian, Isocrates; also six dialogues of Plato. An equipment like thissuggests the satiric lines of Hudibras:

 Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak. 

In considering the difficulties that this child--shall we saybabe?--had to overcome one must remember that the aids to learningGreek were not then what they are now. In 1820 the Greek lexicon was aponderous thing, almost as big and heavy as the infant studenthimself. Worse than this, the definitions were not in English, but inGreek and Latin, and as the boy had not yet learned Latin he had toask his father for the meaning of every new word. The immense taskplaced thus upon the child makes one feel indignant and wish that someorganization for the prevention of cruelty to infants had interferedwith the ambition of the learned father. But we must admire thepatience of the father, however we may question his good sense. "Whathe himself was willing to undergo for the sake of my instruction, "says the son in describing his father's teaching, "may be judged fromthe fact, that I went through the whole process of preparing my Greeklessons in the same room and at the same table at which he waswriting. .. . I was forced to have recourse to him for the meaning ofevery word which I did not know. This incessant interruption, he, oneof the most impatient of men, submitted to, and wrote under thatinterruption several volumes of his History and all else that he hadto write during those years. "

But this does not tell the whole story. Fearing that the Greek mightbe too heavy and concentrated a food for the tender intellect of hischild, the considerate father added a diet of English history andbiography. The boy carefully studied and made notes upon Robertson, Hume, Gibbon, Watson, Hooke, Langhorne's _Plutarch_, Burnet's _Historyof His Own Time_, Millar's _Historical View of the EnglishGovernment_, Mosheim's _Ecclesiastical History_. In biography andtravel he read the life of Knox, the histories of the Quakers, Beaver's _Africa_, Collin's _New South Wales_, Anson's _Voyages_, andHawkesworth's _Voyages Round the World_. "Of children's books, anymore than of playthings, I had scarcely any, except an occasionalgift from a relation or acquaintance. .. . It was no part, however, ofmy father's system to exclude books of amusement, though he allowedthem very sparingly. Of such books he possessed at that time next tonone, but he borrowed several for me; those which I remember are the_Arabian Nights_, Cazotte's _Arabian Tales_, _Don Quixote_, MissEdgeworth's _Popular Tales_, and a book of some reputation in its day, Brooke's _Fool of Quality_. "

All this, it is to be remembered, was done by a boy who was not beyondhis eighth year. In his eighth year he began Latin, not only as alearner but as a teacher. It was his duty to teach the youngerchildren of the family what he had learned. This practice he does notrecommend. "The teaching, I am sure, is very inefficient as teaching, and I well know that the relation between teacher and taught is not agood moral discipline to either. " By the time this prodigy ofintellect and industry reached the age of fourteen he had studied thefollowing formidable list: Virgil, Horace, Phaedrus, Livy, Sallust, the Metamorphoses, Terence, Cicero, Homer, Thucydides, the Hellenica, Demosthenes, Æschines, Lysias, Theocritus, Anacreon, Aristotle'sRhetoric; Euclid, Algebra, the higher mathematics, Joyce's ScientificDialogues, and various treatises on Chemistry; and in addition to allthis he had read parts of other Greek and Latin authors, and much ofEnglish poetry and history. 

A boy with so heavy a burden of learning is very prone to an equalamount of self-conceit. But the father tried to overcome this dangerby holding up a very high standard of comparison, --"not what otherpeople did, but what a man could and ought to do. " He succeeded sowell that the boy was not aware that his attainments wereextraordinary. "I neither estimated myself highly nor lowly; I did notestimate myself at all. If I thought anything about myself, it wasthat I was rather backward in my studies, since I always found myselfso, in comparison of what my father expected of me. " To this assertionMr. Mill very candidly adds: "I assert this with confidence, though itwas not the impression of various persons who saw me in my childhood. They, as I have since found, thought me greatly and disagreeablyself-conceited; probably because I was disputatious, and did notscruple to give direct contradictions to things which I heard said. "

A boy who is kept at his studies as assiduously as was young Mill haslittle time for play or association with other boys. This lack ofcontact with companions is a grave defect in the education of Mill. "Iconstantly remained long, " writes Mill, "and in a less degree havealways remained, inexpert in anything requiring manual dexterity; mymind, as well as my hands, did its work very lamely when it wasapplied, or ought to have been applied, to the practical detailswhich, as they are the chief interest of life to the majority of men, are also the things in which whatever mental capacity they have, chiefly shows itself. "

On the whole we feel that the childhood of Mill could hardly have beena happy one. The joy of physical achievement, the free-heartedabandonment of the young barbarian at his play, the power to do aswell as to know--these are the birthright of every child. But while wemay pity him for his lack of these joys, we dare not forget that tohave lived the life or done the work of John Stuart Mill is no smallthing. And perhaps this life could not have been lived had hiseducation been other than it was. 

XXXIV

CARLYLE GOES TO THE UNIVERSITY

One of the most tender pictures in the history of English literatureis that of Carlyle as he starts for his University career. Just a boy, a child not yet fourteen! It is early morning in November atEcclefechan--and Edinburgh with its famous University is a hundredmiles away. The father and mother have risen early to get Thomasready--not for the cab to take him to the "purple luxury and plushrepose" of the Pullman on the Limited Express. No, Tom is going towalk, --his only companion a boy two or three years older. Theserugged, poor, and godly parents had long discussed the sending ofTommy to the great University. James Bell, one of the wise men of thecommunity, had said: "Educate a boy, and he grows up to despise hisignorant parents, " but they knew that depended on the boy. "Thou hastnot done so; God be thanked, " said James Carlyle to his son in afteryears. 

But let us come back to our picture. In our mind's eye we see theScotch lad starting out on his hundred-mile trip in the mist of afoggy November morning. Almost three-score years after, Carlylehimself beautifully describes the event: "How strangely vivid, howremote and wonderful, tinged with the views of far-off love andsadness, is that journey to me now after fifty-seven years of time! Mymother and father walking with me in the dark frosty November morningthrough the village to set us on our way; my dear and loving mother, her tremulous affection, etc. "

That's the picture of an unknown boy going to the University to becomewhat every pious Scotch mother wants her boy to be--a minister of thegospel. 

Here is another picture, taken about sixty years later. In a somewhatplainly furnished room in a house on a quiet street in Chelsea, a partof London, an old man "worn, and tired, and bent, with deep-linedfeatures, a firm under-jaw, tufted gray hair, and tufted gray andwhite beard, and sunken and unutterably sad eyes, is returning fromthe fireplace, where with trembling fingers he had been lighting hislong clay pipe, and now he resumes his place at a reading desk. " Letus enter this room with Theodore L. Cuyler, who in his _Recollectionsof a Long Life_ tells us: "Thirty years afterwards, in June, 1872, Ifelt an irrepressible desire to see the grand old man once more, and Iaccordingly addressed him a note, requesting him the favor of a fewminutes' interview. .. . After we had waited some time, a feeble, stooping figure, attired in a long blue flannel gown, moved slowlyinto the room. His gray hair was unkempt, his blue eyes were stillkeen and piercing, and a bright hectic spot of red appeared on each ofhis hollow cheeks. His hands were tremulous and his voice deep andhusky. After a few personal inquiries the old man broke out into amost extraordinary and characteristic harangue on the wretcheddegeneracy of these evil days. The prophet Jeremiah was cheerfulnessitself in comparison with him. .. . Most of his extraordinary haranguewas like an eruption of Vesuvius, but the laugh he occasionally gaveshowed that he was talking about as much for his own amusement as forours. "

Between these two pictures, --the one showing us the boy trudging awayin the mist of the November morning, the other revealing an old manwhose home in Chelsea had become the Mecca of the lovers of Englishliterature, --what has occurred?

The young boy has finished his studies at the University; hasconcluded not to enter the ministry; has studied law; served as tutor;translated a masterpiece of German into English, and finally dedicatedhis powers to becoming a notability in English literature: wrote_Sartor Resartus_, the _History of the French Revolution_, a _Life ofCromwell_, a _Life of Frederick the Great_, and has becomeworld-renowned as one of the great figures of the Nineteenth Century. 

XXXV

CARLYLE AND HIS WIFE

In 1826 occurred what Saintsbury calls the most important event in thelife of Carlyle, --his marriage with Jane Welsh, a young woman whotraced her ancestry back to John Knox, the rugged Scotch reformer. Jane was a keen, active, high-strung, sensitive soul. There has arisena formidable mass of literature discussing the relationship betweenThomas and Jane. Were they happy or were they miserable?

Jane Welsh was a Scotch lady whose family was socially superior tothat of Carlyle's. Her father had been a physician, while Carlyle'swas but a rude stone-mason, --and yet a great man. It is said shemarried Thomas because she was ambitious and wanted to be the wife ofa famous man, and she had discovered in the unknown Thomas the marksof genius. In after years she is reported to have said: "I married forambition. Carlyle had exceeded all that my wildest hopes ever imaginedfor him; _and I am miserable_. "

Jeannie had what she had bargained for and yet she was unhappy, --why?

Carlyle was a big-hearted, hard-working, gruff, but kind-heartedindividual. I have not a doubt that he loved his Jeannie. But he tookno pains to show his love in those tender though trivial devotionsthat mean so much to the sensitive wife. 

During the first few years of their married life, they lived in alonely place and had but a scant income. We have a very interestingpicture of their life at Craigenputtock. Thomas could not eat bakers'bread, so Jeannie baked. The one servant they had was not competent. It may have been this same servant that was responsible for Thomas'finding, altogether unexpectedly, of course, a dead mouse at thebottom of his dish of oatmeal. As to the bread-baking Jean has givenus a very graphic account:

"Further we were very poor, and further and worst, being an onlychild, and brought up to 'great prospects, ' I was sublimely ignorantof every branch of useful knowledge, though a capital Latin scholar, and very fair mathematician! It behooved me in these astonishingcircumstances to learn to sew! Husbands, I was shocked to find, woretheir stockings into holes, and were always losing buttons, and I wasexpected 'to look to all that;' also it behooved me to learn to_cook_! no capable servant choosing to live at such an out-of-the-wayplace, and my husband having bad digestion, which complicated mydifficulties dreadfully. The bread, above all, bought at Dumfries, 'soured on his stomach' (Oh heaven!), and it was plainly my duty as aChristian wife to bake at home. So I sent for Cobbett's _CottageEconomy_, and fell to work at a loaf of bread. But knowing nothingabout the process of fermentation or the heat of ovens, it came topass that my loaf got put into the oven at the time that myself oughtto have been put into bed; and I remained the only person not asleepin a house in the middle of a desert. One o'clock struck, and thentwo, and then three, and still I was sitting there in an immensesolitude, my whole body aching with weariness, my heart aching with asense of forlornness and _degradation_. That I who had been so pettedat home, whose comfort had been studied by everybody in the house, andwho had never been required to _do_ anything, but _cultivate my mind_, should have to pass all those hours of the night in watching _a loafof bread_, which mightn't turn out bread after all! Such thoughtsmaddened me, till I laid down my head on the table and sobbed aloud. It was then that somehow the idea of Benvenuto Cellini sitting up allnight watching his Perseus in the furnace came into my head, andsuddenly I asked myself: 'After all, in the sight of the Upper Powers, what is the mighty difference between a statue of Perseus and a loafof bread, so that each be the thing that one's hand has found to do?'. .. If he had been a woman living at Craigenputtock, with a dyspeptichusband, sixteen miles from a baker, and he a bad one, all these samequalities would have come out more fitly in a _good_ loaf of bread. 

"I cannot express what consolation this germ of an idea spread over myuncongenial life during the years we lived at that savage place, wheremy two immediate predecessors had gone _mad_, and the third had takento drink. "

While enjoying the description which Mrs. Carlyle has painted in suchan entertaining manner, it is well to observe that she does not blameher husband. She seems to be writing the account while she is silentlylaughing at the absurd preparation her life had had for the duties ofthe wife of a poor man. But Mr. T. P. O'Connor, who writes in 1895, isoutspoken:

"I do not want to speak disrespectfully of poor Carlyle, but in spiritit is somewhat hard to keep one's hand off him, as we reconstructthose scenes in the gaunt house at Craigenputtock. There is a littledetail in one scene which adds a deeper horror. I have said that Mrs. Carlyle had to scrub the floors, and as she scrubbed them Carlylewould look on smoking--drawing in from tobacco pleasantcomfortableness and easy dreams--while his poor drudge panted andsighed over the hard work, which she had never done before. Do you notfeel that you would like to break the pipe in his mouth, and shake himoff the chair, and pitch him on to the floor, to take a share of thephysical burden which his shoulders were so much more able to bear?"

Another anecdote is that at a dinner while Carlyle was monopolizingthe conversation, talking as only he could talk, he, the irritable, turned upon his wife with "Jeanie, don't breathe so hard!" And stillagain, we hear it said that Tennyson once remarked it was well theCarlyles had married each other for if each had married another therewould have been _four_ instead of _two_ unhappy people. But I thinkthe truer remark was made when Tennyson said to his son, Hallam: "Mr. And Mrs. Carlyle on the whole enjoy life together, or else they wouldnot have chaffed one another so heartily. "

The _Century_ of some years ago contained this witty skit from the penof Bessie Chandler:

 And I sit here, thinking, thinking, How your life was one long winking At Thomas' faults and failings, and his undue share of bile! Won't you own, dear, just between us, That this living with a genius Isn't, after all, so pleasant, --is it, Jeannie Welsh Carlyle?

However, with all that may be said to the contrary, I do not think wedare say that the marriage of Thomas and Jeannie was an unhappy one. After reading fifteen hundred pages of biography and hundreds ofletters passing to and fro, I am of the belief of Mr. Tennyson, thaton the whole their union was a happy one. 

Shortly after Carlyle had been elected Rector of the University ofEdinburgh, Jean died suddenly. While out driving one afternoon by HydePark, she jumped out to pick up her little dog, over whose foot acarriage had passed. She was never again seen alive. In her carriageshe was found dead with her hands folded on her lap. When Carlyleheard of it he was away at Scotsbrig. Later in describing his feelingshe wrote: "It had a kind of _stunning_ effect on me. Not for above twodays could I estimate the immeasurable depth of it, or the infinitesorrow which had peeled my life all bare, and a moment shattered mypoor world to universal ruin. " And Froude tells us that in Carlyle'sold age--he lived to be eighty-five--he often broke forth in thesepassionate words of Burns:

 Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met and never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

 [Illustration: THOMAS CARLYLE From a photograph from life]

XXXVI

CARLYLE AS LECTURER

In 1834, the year of the death of Coleridge, we find Carlyle, likemany another Scotchman, leaving Scotland to enter the great Babylon, London. The previous six years he had passed with his wife atCraigenputtock. He was almost forty years of age. His wife had greatconfidence in his ability, which up to this time the world had notrecognized. So she urged him to struggle for influence and power inthe great heart of the modern world. Number 5, Cheyne Row, Chelsea, isthe house they selected. There for the remaining forty-seven years ofhis life he worked and loved and stormed. Their neighborhood was onefamous in association with the names of many _literati_. Near bySmollett wrote _Count Fathom_; in the same locality More hadentertained the great scholar, Erasmus; there too had once livedBolingbroke, and earlier, the Count de Grammont; and last but notleast the author of Abou Ben Adhem, Leigh Hunt. 

When Emerson once suggested to Carlyle that he come over to America tolecture, Carlyle took kindly to the idea. He kept it in mind as apossibility for years, but he never carried it into effect. But he didlecture in London. His literary work was not bringing him the moneyhe needed. His friends were struck with his ability. Why should he notlecture? This, if well managed, would bring him immediateremuneration. His friends set diligently to work, issued a prospectus, tickets at a guinea a course, and invited persons of influence toattend. Spedding wrote this letter to Monckton Milnes:

"I take the opportunity of writing to make you know, if you do notknow already, that Carlyle lectures on German literature next month;the particulars you will find in the inclosed syllabus, which, if itshould convey as much knowledge to you as it does ignorance to me, will be edifying. Of course, you will be here to attend the saidlectures, but I want you to come up a little before they begin, thatyou may assist in procuring the attendance of others. The list ofsubscribers is at present not large, and you are just the man to makeit grow. As it is Carlyle's first essay in this kind, it is importantthat there should be a respectable number of hearers. Some name ofdecided piety is, I believe, rather wanted. Learning, taste, andnobility are represented by Hallam, Rogers, and Lord Lansdowne. H. Taylor has provided a large proportion of family, wit, and beauty, andI have assisted them to a little Apostlehood. We want your name torepresent the great body of Tories, Roman Catholics, High Churchmen, metaphysicians, poets, and Savage Landor. Come!"

Carlyle was busy with his _French Revolution_ and so did not make ascareful preparation as he might have made. Yet he was so full of hissubject that if he could overcome the difficulties of publicspeaking, he was bound to be interesting. As the day approached bothhe and his wife grew nervous. For diversion he drew up a humorousending: "Good Christians, it has become entirely impossible for me totalk to you about German or any literature or terrestrial thing; onerequest only I have to make, that you would be kind enough to cover meunder a tub for the next six weeks and to go your ways with all myblessing. " This fortunately he did not need to use. Mrs. Carlyleworried lest he would be late, but by dint of close attention she feltshe could have him "at the place of execution" at the appointed hour. How to get him to stop at "four precisely" was another problem. Onehumorous suggestion was that a lighted cigar might be laid on thetable before him when the clock struck the hour. 

"May the First, 1837, " says Professor MacMechan, "was a notable day. In the afternoon, Carlyle lectured at Almack's, and in the eveningMacready produced young Mr. Browning's _Strafford_, for the firsttime, at Covent Garden. Hallam, of the _Middle Ages_, --'a broad, old, positive man, with laughing eyes, '--was chairman and brought thelecturer face to face with his first audience, the two hundred holdersof guinea tickets. It was made up of the elements referred to inSpedding's letter. Learning, taste, nobility, family, wit, and beautywere all represented in that assembly; 'composed of mere quality andnotabilities, ' says Carlyle. It is easy to figure the scene; the menall clean-shaven, in the clumsy coats, high collars, and enormousneck-cloths of the period, the ladies, and there were naturally moreladies than men, following the vagaries of fashion in 'bishop' sleevesand the 'pretty church-and-state bonnets, ' that seemed to Hunt attimes, 'to think through all their ribbons. ' We call that kind ofbonnet 'coal-scuttle' now, but Maclise's portrait of Lady Morgantrying hers on before a glass justifies Hunt's epithet. The lecturerwas the lean, wiry type of Scot, within an inch of six feet. In face, he was not the bearded, broken-down Carlyle of the Fry photograph, butthe younger Carlyle of the Emerson portrait. Clean-shaven, as was thenthe fashion, the determination of the lower jaw lying bare, the thickblack hair brushed carelessly and coming down on the bony, juttingforehead, violet-blue eyes, deep-set, and alert, the whole face showsthe Scot and the peasant in every line. It was a striking face, theunion of black hair, blue eyes, and, usually, ruddy color on the highcheek bones, 'as if painted . .. At the plow's tail, ' Lady Eastlakeremarked, and she was an artist. Harriet Martineau remarks that he wasas 'yellow as a guinea, ' but this would be due to some temporarygastric disturbance. He was very nervous, as was most natural, andstood with downcast eyes, his fingers picking at the desk before him. 

At the beginning his speech was broken, and his throat was dry, drinkas he would; but his desperate determination not to break down carriedhim through. The society people were 'very humane' to him, and thelecturer had a message for them; his matter was new, his manner wasinteresting; he knew his subject. The rugged Scottish accent came likea welcome draught of caller air from the moorlands of Galloway, tothe dwellers in London drawing-rooms, and 'they were not a littleastonished when the wild Annandale voice grew high and earnest. '"

From this first venture which was so successful--he cleared onehundred and thirty-five guineas after all the expenses had beenpaid--Carlyle was induced to give other series in the next few years. One of the most popular books by Carlyle is _Heroes and Hero Worship_;this first was given in a course of lectures. When "The Hero as Man ofLetters" was given, Caroline Fox, an ardent admirer of the Scot, wasin attendance. She has left a vivid description of the man: "Carlylesoon appeared, and looked as if he felt a well-dressed London audiencescarcely the arena for him to figure in as a popular lecturer. He is atall, robust-looking man; rugged simplicity and indomitable strengthare in his face, and such a glow of genius in it--not alwayssmoldering there, but flashing from his beautiful gray eyes, from theremoteness of their deep setting under that massive brow. His manneris very quiet, but he speaks as one tremendously convinced of what heutters, and who had much, very much, in him that was quiteunutterable, quite unfit to be uttered to the uninitiated ear; andwhen the Englishman's sense of beauty or truth exhibited itself invociferous cheers, he would impatiently, almost contemptuously, wavehis hand, as if that were not the kind of homage which truth demanded. He began in a rather low and nervous voice, with a broad Scotchaccent, but it soon grew firm, and shrank not abashed from its greattask. "

XXXVII

CARLYLE ON WORDSWORTH AND BROWNING

On our first day's journey, wrote Mr. Duffy in the _ContemporaryReview_, the casual mention of Edmund Burke induced me to ask Carlylewho was the best talker he had met among notable people in London. 

He said that when he met Wordsworth first he had been assured that hetalked better than any man in England. It was his habit to talkwhatever was in his mind at the time, with total indifference to theimpression it produced on his hearers. On this occasion he keptdiscoursing how far you could get carried out of London on this sideand on that for sixpence. One was disappointed, --perhaps, --but, afterall, this was the only healthy way of talking, to say what is actuallyin your mind, and let sane creatures who listen to make what they canof it. Whether they understood or not, Wordsworth maintained a sterncomposure, and went his way, content that the world went quite anotherroad. When he knew him better, he found that no man gave you sofaithful and vivid a picture of any person or thing which he had seenwith his own eyes. 

I inquired if Wordsworth came up to this description he had heard ofhim as the best talker in England. 

"Well, " he replied, "it was true you could get more meaning out ofwhat Wordsworth had to say than from anybody else. Leigh Hunt wouldemit more pretty, pleasant, ingenious flashes in an hour thanWordsworth in a day. But in the end you would find, if wellconsidered, that you had been drinking perfumed water in one case, andin the other you got the sense of a deep, earnest man, who had thoughtsilently and painfully on many things. There was one exception to yoursatisfaction with the man. When he spoke of poetry he harangued aboutmeters, cadences, rhythms, and so forth, and one could not be at thepains of listening to him. But on all other subjects he had more sensein him of a sound and instructive sort than any other literary man inEngland. "

I suggested that Wordsworth might naturally like to speak of theinstrumental part of his art, and consider what he had to say veryinstructive, as by modifying the instrument, he had wrought arevolution in English poetry. He taught it to speak in unsophisticatedlanguage and of the humbler and more familiar interests of life. 

Carlyle said, "No, not so; all he had got to say in that way was likea few driblets from the great ocean of German speculation on kindredsubjects by Goethe and others. Coleridge, who had been in Germany, brought it over with him, and they translated Teutonic thought into apoor, disjointed, whitey-brown sort of English, and that was nearlyall. But Wordsworth, after all, was the man of most practical mind ofany of the persons connected with literature whom he had encountered;though his pastoral pipings were far from being of the importance hisadmirers imagined. He was essentially a cold, hard, silent, practicalman, who, if he had not fallen into poetry, would have done effectualwork of some sort in the world. This was the impression one got of himas he looked out of his stern blue eyes, superior to men andcircumstances. "

I said I had expected to hear of a man of softer mood, moresympathetic and less taciturn. 

Carlyle said, "No, not at all; he was a man quite other than that; aman of an immense head and great jaws like a crocodile's, cast in amold designed for prodigious work. "

"I begged him, " continued Mr. Duffy, in writing of conversations withCarlyle, "to tell me something of the author of a serial I had comeacross lately, called _Bells and Pomegranates_, printed in painfullysmall type, on inferior paper, but in which I took great delight. There were ballads to make the heart beat fast, and one littletragedy, _The Blot in the 'Scutcheon_, which, though not over-disposedto what he called sentimentality, I could not read without tears. Theheroine's excuse for the sin which left a blot in a 'scutcheonstainless for a thousand years, was, in the circumstances of the case, as touching a line as I could recall in English poetry:

 I had no mother, and we were so young. "

He said Robert Browning had a powerful intellect, and among the menengaged in literature in England just now was one of the few from whomit was possible to expect something. He was somewhat uncertain abouthis career, and he himself (Carlyle) had perhaps contributed to thetrouble by assuring him that poetry was no longer a field where anytrue or worthy success could be won or deserved. If a man had anythingto say entitled to the attention of rational creatures, all mortalswould come to recognize after a little that there was a more effectualway of saying it than in metrical numbers. Poetry used to be regardedas the natural, and even the essential language of feeling, but it wasnot at all so; there was not a sentiment in the gamut of human passionwhich could not be adequately expressed in prose. 

Browning's earliest works had been loudly applauded by undiscerningpeople, but he was now heartily ashamed of them, and hoped in the endto do something altogether different from _Sordello_ and _Paracelsus_. He had strong ambition and great confidence in himself, and wasconsidering his future course just now. When he first met youngBrowning, he was a youth living with his parents, people ofrespectable position among the Dissenters, but not wealthy neither, and the little room in which he kept his books was in that sort oftrim that showed that he was the apple of their eyes. He was about sixand thirty at present, and a little time before had married MissBarrett. She had long been confined to a sofa by a spinal disease, andseemed destined to end there very speedily, but the ending was to bequite otherwise, as it proved. Browning made his way to her in astrange manner, and they fell mutually in love. She rose up from hersick-bed with recovered strength and agility, and was now, it wasunderstood, tolerably well. They married and were living together inItaly, like the hero and heroine of a mediæval romance. 

XXXVIII

THE AUTHOR OF "JANE EYRE"

Charlotte Brontë was born in Yorkshire in 1816. A generation agoeverybody was reading and talking about _Jane Eyre_, her most popularnovel. The life of the author was not a happy one. She was compelledto teach for a living, and her position as governess was at timeshumiliating to her proud spirit. Her two sisters, whom she tenderlyloved, died young; her brother was no credit to the family, and thelife surrounding the parsonage--she was the daughter of aclergyman--was not particularly cheery, yet her many trials butenriched a rare and beautiful character. 

While living at the parsonage she would occasionally receive a box ofbooks from her publisher. The following letter is self-explanatory:

"Do not ask me to mention what books I should like to read. Half thepleasure of receiving a parcel from Cornhill consists in having itscontents chosen for us. We like to discover, too, by the leaves cuthere and there that the ground has been traveled before us. I took upLeigh Hunt's book, _The Town_, with the impression that it would beinteresting only to Londoners, and I was surprised, ere I had readmany pages, to find myself enchained by his pleasant, graceful, easystyle, varied knowledge, just views, and kindly spirit. There issomething peculiarly anti-melancholic in Leigh Hunt's writings, andyet they are never boisterous--they resemble sunshine, being at oncebright and tranquil. 

I like Carlyle better and better. His style I do _not_ like, nor do Ialways concur in his opinions, nor quite fall in with hishero-worship; but there is a manly love of truth, an honestrecognition and fearless vindication of intrinsic greatness, ofintellectual and moral worth considered apart from birth, rank, orwealth, which commands my sincere admiration. Carlyle would never dofor a contributor to the _Quarterly_. I have not read his _FrenchRevolution_. Carlyle is a great man, but I always wish he would writeplain English. Emerson's _Essays_ I read with much interest and oftenwith admiration, but they are of mixed gold and clay, --deep, invigorating truth, dreary and depressing fallacy, seem to me combinedtherein. 

Scott's _Suggestions on Female Education_ I read with unalloyedpleasure; it is justly, clearly, and felicitously expressed. The girlsof this generation have great advantages--it seems to me that theyreceive much encouragement in the acquisition of knowledge and thecultivation of their minds. In these days women may be thoughtful andwell read, without being stigmatized as "blues" or pedants. 

I have lately been reading _Modern Painters_, and have derived fromthe work much genuine pleasure, and I hope, some edification; at anyrate it has made me feel how ignorant I had previously been on thesubjects which it treats. Hitherto I have only had instinct to guideme in judging of art; I feel now as if I had been walkingblindfold--this book seems to give me eyes. I _do_ wish I had pictureswithin reach by which to test the new sense. Who can read theseglowing descriptions of Turner's works without longing to see them!However eloquent and convincing the language in which another'sopinion is placed before you, you still wish to judge for yourself. Ilike this author's style much; there is both energy and beauty in it. I like himself too, because he is such a hearty admirer. He does notgive half measure of praise or veneration. He eulogizes, he reverenceswith his whole soul. One can sympathize with that sort of devout, serious admiration (for he is no rhapsodist), one can respect it. Yet, possibly, many people would laugh at it. I am truly obliged to Mr. Smith for giving me this book, not often having met with one that haspleased me more. 

I congratulate you on the approaching publication of Mr. Ruskin's newwork. If the _Seven Lamps of Architecture_ resemble their predecessor, _Modern Painters_, they will be no lamps at all, but a newconstellation--seven bright stars, for whose rising the reading worldought to be anxiously agaze. 

I am beginning to read Eckermann's _Goethe_--it promised to be a mostinteresting work. Honest, simple, single-minded Eckermann! Great, powerful, giant-souled, but also profoundly egotistical old JohannWolfgang von Goethe! He _was_ a mighty egotist. He thought no more ofswallowing up poor Eckermann's existence in his own, than the whalethought of swallowing Jonah. 

The worst of reading graphic accounts of such men, of seeing graphicpictures of the scenes, the society in which they moved, is that itexcites a too tormenting longing to look on the reality; but does suchreality now exist? Amidst all the troubled waters of European society, does such a vast, strong, selfish old leviathan now roll ponderous? Isuppose not. 

 * * * * *

I often wish to say something on the "condition-of-women" question, but it is one on which so much cant has been talked, that one feels asort of reluctance to approach it. I have always been accustomed tothink that the necessity of earning one's living is not, in itself, anevil; though I feel it may become a heavy evil if health fails, ifemployment lacks, if the demand upon our efforts, made by the weaknessof others dependent upon us becomes greater than our strength. Bothsons and daughters should early be inured to habits of independenceand industry. 

A governess' lot is frequently, indeed, bitter, but its results areprecious. The mind, feelings, and temper are subjected to a disciplineequally painful and priceless. I have known many who were unhappy asgovernesses, but scarcely one who, having undergone the ordeal, wasnot ultimately strengthened and improved--made more enduring for herown afflictions, more considerate for the afflictions of others. Thegreat curse of a single female life is its dependency; daughters, aswell as sons, should aim at making their way through life. Teachersmay be hard-worked, ill-paid, and despised; but the girl who stays athome _doing nothing_ is worse off than the worse-paid drudge of aschool; the listlessness of idleness will infallibly degrade hernature. 

Lonely as I am, how should I be if Providence had never given mecourage to adopt a career, perseverance to plead through two longweary years with publishers till they admitted me? How should I be, with youth passed, sisters lost, a resident in a moorland parish wherethere is not a single resident family? In that case I should have noworld at all. The raven weary of surveying the deluge, and with no arkto return to, would be my type. 

As it is, something like a hope and motive sustain me still. I wishevery woman in England had also a hope and a motive. Alas! I fearthere are many old maids who have neither. 

 --Adapted from _Littell's Living Age_. 

XXXIX

THACKERAY IN AMERICA

Thackeray, like many other Englishmen of note, came to America tolecture in order to make money. He had delivered lectures in Londonand in other towns in England on the _English Humorists_. Why not usehis popularity in America as a means of acquiring a little fortune forthe sake of his wife and two girls. "I must and will go, " he wrote tohis eldest daughter, "not because I like it, but because it is right Ishould secure some money against my death for your mother and you twogirls. And I think, if I have luck, I may secure nearly a third of thesum that I think I ought to leave behind me by a six months' tour inthe States. "

Let us, in order to get a first-hand impression, read from lettersthat he wrote from America:

"The passage is nothing, now it is over; I am rather ashamed of gloomand disquietude about such a trifling journey. I have made scores ofnew acquaintances and lighted on my feet as usual. I didn't expect tolike people as I do, but am agreeably disappointed and find many mostpleasant companions, natural and good; natural and well read and wellbred too, and I suppose am none the worse pleased because everybodyhas read all my books and praises my lectures (I preach in aUnitarian Church, and the parson comes to hear me. His name is Mr. Bellows, it isn't a pretty name), and there are 2, 000 people nearlywho come, and the lectures are so well liked that it is probable Ishall do them over again. So really there is a chance of making apretty little sum of money for old age, imbecility, and those youngladies afterwards. .. . Broadway is miles upon miles long, a rush oflife such as I have never seen; not so full as the Strand, but sorapid. The houses are always being torn down and built up again, therailroad cars drive slap into the midst of the city. There arebarricades and scaffoldings banging everywhere. I have not been into ahouse, except the fat country one, but something new is being done toit, and the hammerings are clattering in the passage, or a wall orsteps are down, or the family is going to move. Nobody is quiet here, nor am I. The rush and restlessness please me, and I like, for alittle, the dash of the stream. I am not received as a god, which Ilike too. There is one paper which goes on every morning saying I am asnob, and I don't say no. Six people were reading it at breakfast thismorning, and the man opposite me this morning popped it under thetable-cloth. But the other papers roar with approbation. "

In this letter, of which we have read a fragment, Mr. Thackerayinclosed a clipping from the New York _Evening Post_. This is what thenewspaper had to say: "The building was crowded. .. . Every one who sawMr. Thackeray last evening for the first time seemed to have hadtheir impressions of his appearance and manner of speech corrected. Few expected to see so large a man; he is gigantic; six feet four atleast; few expected to see so old a person; his hair appears to havekept silvery record over fifty years; and then there was a notion inthe minds of many that there must be something dashing and 'fast' inhis appearance, whereas his costume was perfectly plain; theexpression of his face grave and earnest; his address perfectlyunaffected, and such as we might expect to meet with, in a well-bredman somewhat advanced in years. His elocution also surprised those whohad derived their impressions from the English journals. His voice isa superb tenor, and possesses that pathetic tremble which is soeffective in what is called emotive eloquence, while his delivery wasas well suited to the communication he had to make as could well havebeen imagined. 

"His enunciation is perfect. Every word he uttered might have beenheard in the remotest quarters of the room, yet he scarcely lifted hisvoice above a colloquial tone. The most striking feature in his wholemanner was the utter absence of affectation of any kind. He did notpermit himself to appear conscious that he was an object of peculiarinterest in the audience, neither was he guilty of the greater errorof not appearing to care whether they were interested in him or not. In other words, he inspired his audience with a respect for him, as aman proportioned to the admiration, which his books have inspired forhim as an author. "

From Philadelphia Thackeray writes: "Oh, I am tired of shaking handswith people, and acting the lion business night after night. Everybody is introduced and shakes hands. I know thousands ofcolonels, professors, editors, and what not, and walk the streetsguiltily, knowing that I don't know 'em, and trembling lest the manopposite to me is one of my friends of the day before. I believe I ampopular, except at Boston among the newspaper men who fired into me, but a great favorite with the _monde_ there and elsewhere. Here inPhiladelphia it is all praise and kindness. Do you know there are500, 000 people in Philadelphia? I daresay you had no idea thereof, andsmile at the idea of there being a _monde_ here and at Boston and NewYork. .. . I am writing this with a new gold pen, in such a fine goldcase. An old gentleman gave it to me yesterday, a white-headed oldphilosopher and political economist, there's something simple in theway these kind folks regard a man; they read our books as if we wereFielding, and so forth. The other night men were talking of Dickensand Bulwer as if they were equal to Shakespeare, and I was pleased tofind myself pleased at hearing them praised. The prettiest girl inPhiladelphia, poor soul, has read _Vanity Fair_ twelve times. I paidher a great big compliment yesterday, about her good looks of course, and she turned round delighted to her friend and said, '_Ai mosttallut_, ' that is something like the pronunciation. "

In another letter: "Now I have seen three great cities, Boston, NewYork, Philadelphia, I think I like them all mighty well. They seem tome not so civilized as our London, but more so than Manchester andLiverpool. At Boston is very good literate company indeed; it is likeEdinburgh for that, --a vast amount of toryism and donnishnesseverywhere. That of New York the simplest and least pretentious; itsuffices that a man should keep fine house, give parties, and have adaughter, to get all the world to him. "

XL

GEORGE ELIOT BECOMES A WRITER OF FICTION

As one is ready to call Elizabeth Barrett the greatest poetess of thenineteenth century, so there is little hesitation in pronouncingGeorge Eliot the foremost of the many women who have written fiction. The literary critics sometimes dispute her supremacy by urging theclaims of Jane Austen, who is said to have Shaksperean power in thedelineation of character. But the name of Jane Austen is unknown tothe general public. For every reader of _Pride and Prejudice_ thereare a score of readers of _Adam Bede_. 

George Eliot is the pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans. She took the name of_George_ because it was the first name of Mr. Lewes, and Eliot "was agood, mouth-filling, easily pronounced word. "

George Eliot was almost thirty-seven years old before she began towrite fiction; in this respect reminding us of Scott, who had firstachieved fame as a poet before he began in his maturity to writefiction. We are happy in having from the pen of George Eliot herselfthe account of how she began to write fiction:

"September, 1856, made a new era in my life, for it was then I beganto write fiction. It had always been a vague dream of mine that sometime or other I might write a novel; and my shadowy conception of whatthe novel was to be, varied, of course, from one epoch of my life toanother. But I never went further toward the actual writing of thenovel than an introductory chapter describing a Staffordshire villageand the life of the neighboring farm-houses; and as the years passedon I lost any hope that I should ever be able to write a novel. "

Mr. Lewes encouraged George Eliot by admiring her introductorychapter. He first read it when they were together in Germany. Whenthey had returned to England and she was more successful in her essaywriting than he had expected, he continued to urge her to try to writea story. "He began to say very positively, 'You must try and write astory, ' and when we were at Tenby he urged me to begin at once. Ideferred it, however, after my usual fashion with work that does notpresent itself as an absolute duty. But one morning, as I was thinkingwhat should be the subject of my first story, my thoughts mergedthemselves into a dreamy doze, and I imagined myself writing a story, of which the title was _The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton_. I was soon wide awake again and told G. (Mr. Lewes). He said 'Oh, whata capital title!' and from that time I had settled in my mind thatthis should be my first story. George used to say, 'It may be afailure--it may be that you are unable to write fiction. Or, perhaps, it may be just good enough to warrant your trying again. ' Again, 'Youmay write a _chef-d'oeuvre_ at once--there's no telling. ' But hisprevalent impression was, that though I could hardly write a _poor_novel, my effort would want the highest quality of fiction--dramaticpresentation. He used to say, 'You have wit, description, andphilosophy--those go a good way towards the production of a novel. Itis worth while for you to try the experiment. '"

When she had finished the first part of _Amos Barton_, Mr. Lewes wasno longer skeptical about her ability to write dialogue. The nextquestion was whether she had the power of pathos. This was to bedetermined by the way in which the death of Milly was to be treated. "One night G. Went to town on purpose to leave me a quiet evening forwriting it. I wrote the chapter from the news brought by the shepherdto Mrs. Hackit, to the moment when Amos is dragged from the bedside, and I read it to G. When he came home. We both cried over it, and thenhe came up to me and kissed me, saying, 'I think your pathos is betterthan your fun. '"

The first part of _Amos Barton_ appeared in the January number of_Blackwood_. The publisher paid the author fifty guineas. Afterwards, when the series of stories dealing with clerical life was published inbook form, she was paid £120; later, when the publishing firm decidedto issue a thousand copies instead of seven hundred and fifty, £60 wasadded to the original sum. George Eliot expressed herself as sensitiveto the merits of checks for fifty guineas, but the success of herlater writings was so pronounced that a check for fifty guineas wouldhave made little impression, except a feeling of disdain. 

_Amos Barton_ was followed by _Mr. Gilfil's Love Story_, and _Janet'sRepentance_. The three comprise _Scenes from Clerical Life_. Thestories are based upon events which happened in the early life of thewriter when she lived in Warwickshire. The village of Milby is reallyNuneaton. When the villagers and country people read the _Scenes fromClerical Life_ there was great excitement. Who could this _GeorgeEliot_ be? Some one who had lived among them and heard all the gossipof the neighborhood. But they could not recall any man with enoughliterary ability to do what had been done. Finally they did rememberthat a man, Liggins by name, had written poetry. The poetry was ratherweak stuff, but perhaps his strength lay in fiction. Liggins wasflattered by the suspicions of his neighbors. His own doubt wasgradually changed to belief. Yes, he was the author of this newfiction, because every one said he was. The voice of the people is thevoice of God. He was invited to write for a theological magazine. Finally George Eliot was obliged to reveal her identity when thepublic was about to subscribe a sum of money for the pseudo-literaryLiggins who was so fastidious as to refuse money for the product ofhis genius. Here ends the career of Liggins, the liar. 

One reason the villagers had for believing one of their own number wasthe author was based on the conversations in the _Scenes from ClericalLife_. Not only were they true to life, but they were conversationsthat had actually taken place. How did George Eliot hear them? Had sheloitered in the public room of the village tavern? Mr. C. S. Olcottwrites in the _Outlook_, --"The real conversations which were socleverly reported were actually heard by Robert Evans, the father ofGeorge Eliot, who doubtless often visited the Bull in company with hisneighbors. He repeated them to his wife, not realizing that the littledaughter who listened so attentively was gifted with a marvelousmemory, or that she possessed a genius that could transform a simpletale into a novel of dramatic power. Mary Ann Evans had moved toCoventry sixteen years before, and was therefore scarcely known inNuneaton at the time the stories appeared. She then had no literaryfame, and was no more likely to be thought of in this connection thanany one of a hundred other school-girls. "

In her journal she records on October 22, 1857, --"Began my new novel, _Adam Bede_. " For it her publishers offered her £800 for the copyrightfor four years; later they added £400, and still later Blackwoods, finding a ready sale for their numerous editions, proposed to pay £800above the original price. And for the appearance of _Romola_ in the_Cornhill Magazine_, Mr. George Smith offered £10, 000, but £7000 wasaccepted. For _Middlemarch_, which appeared in separate publication, that is, independent of a magazine, she received a still largeramount. Middlemarch is considered by many critics her best work. Itwas very popular from the first. In a letter to John Blackwood, November, 1873, George Eliot writes, --"I had a letter from Mr. Bancroft (the American ambassador at Berlin) the other day, in whichhe says that everybody in Berlin reads _Middlemarch_. He had to buytwo copies for his house, and he found the rector of the university, astupendous mathematician, occupied with it in the solid part of theday. "

The public may prefer _Adam Bede_ or _Middlemarch_ but it is reportedthat George Eliot herself preferred _Silas Marner_. This is the reportof Justin McCarthy, who was a frequent visitor on Sunday afternoons atthe Priory, the home of George Eliot, where many distinguishedvisitors, such as Herbert Spencer, Tyndall, and Huxley, loved togather. "There is a legend, " writes Mr. McCarthy, "that George Eliotnever liked to talk about her novels. I can only say that she startedthe subject with me one day. It was, to be sure, about a picture somepainter had sent her, representing a scene in _Silas Marner_, and shecalled my attention to it, and said that of all her novels _SilasMarner_ was her favorite. I ventured to disagree with her, and to saythat the _Mill on the Floss_ was my favorite. She entered into thediscussion quite genially, just as if she were talking of the works ofsome stranger, which I think is the very perfection of the mannerauthors ought to adopt in talking about their books. "

XLI

THE AUTHOR OF "ALICE IN WONDERLAND"

It is said that when Victoria, late queen of England, had read _Alicein Wonderland_ she was so pleased that she asked for more of theauthor's books. They brought her a treatise on logarithms by the Rev. C. L. Dodgson. Lewis Carroll and the Rev. C. L. Dodgson were one and thesame person, although they were two dissimilar characters. The one wasa popular author of nonsense that delighted children by the hundredsof thousands and the other was a scholarly mathematician. 

C. L. Dodgson came of good Northern-England stock. His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were clergymen--a contradiction, says his biographer, Mr. Collingwood, of the scandalous theory thatthree generations of parsons end in a fool. As a boy he kept all sortsof odd and unlikely pets. From Rugby he entered Oxford. In 1856 he wasmade college lecturer in mathematics, a position which he filled for aquarter of a century. That he had thoughts of lighter material thanmathematics is evidenced by a short poem that appeared about this timein a college paper called _College Rhymes_. Two of the stanzas runlike this:

 She has the bear's ethereal grace The bland hyena's laugh, The footsteps of the elephant, The neck of the giraffe;

 I love her still, believe me, Though my heart its passion hides, She is all my fancy painted her, But oh! how much besides. 

The year 1862 saw the beginning of the world-famous _Alice_. He toldthe story to Dean Liddell's three daughters. "Alice, " the second ofthe three (now Mrs. Reginald Hargreaves) thus tells the story:

"I believe the beginning of _Alice_ was told one summer afternoon whenthe sun was so burning that we had landed in the meadows down theriver, deserting the boat to take refuge in the only bit of shade tobe found, and which was under a new-made hay-rick. Here from all threecame the old petition of 'Tell us a story, ' and so began the everdelightful tale. Sometimes to tease us--and perhaps being reallytired--Mr. Dodgson would stop suddenly and say, 'And that's all tillnext time. ' 'Oh! but it is next time, ' would be the exclamation fromall three; and after some persuasion the story would start afresh. Another day perhaps the story would begin in the boat, and Mr. Dodgson, in the midst of telling a thrilling adventure, would pretendto fall fast asleep, to our great dismay. " . .. 

"Many of Lewis Carroll's friendships with children began in a railwaycarriage. Once when he was traveling, a lady, whose little daughterhad been reading _Alice_, startled him by exclaiming: 'Isn't it sadabout poor Mr. Lewis Carroll? He's gone mad, you know. .. . I have iton the best authority. '"

Lewis Carroll, or rather Mr. Dodgson, did not wish his acquaintancesto speak of him as the author of _Alice_. In his every-day work hewanted to be known as the serious mathematician. He was conservativein his ideas and did not look with favor upon the movement tooverthrow Euclid. In 1870 he published a book entitled _Euclid and hisModern Rivals_. The London _Spectator_ speaks of this as probably themost humorous contribution ever devoted to the subject of mathematics. In an academical discussion held at Oxford he once published threerules to be followed in debate. This is one of the three: "Let it begranted that any one may speak at any length on a subject at anydistance from that subject. "

XLII

ABOUT DARWIN

When a prominent literary journal at the close of the last centuryasked a number of distinguished Americans and Englishmen to name theten most influential books of the century, it was interesting to notethat Darwin's _Origin of Species_ received more frequent mention thanany other book. Five years after Charles Darwin had been buried (hewas laid to rest in Westminster Abbey in 1882), his son published the_Life and Letters of Darwin_, which included an autobiographicalchapter. From this work we can gather enough to show some aspects ofthis remarkable man. 

Men of genius are often in childhood very imaginative. It is sometimespretty difficult to distinguish between playful imagination and lying. Let us give Darwin the benefit of the doubt in this instance:

"One little event during this year (1817) has fixed itself very firmlyin my mind, and I hope that it has done so from my conscience havingbeen afterwards sorely troubled by it; it is curious as showing thatapparently I was interested at this early age in the variability ofplants! I told another little boy (I believe it was Leighton, whoafterwards became a well-known lichenologist and botanist), that Icould produce variously colored polyanthuses and primroses by wateringthem with certain colored fluids, which was of course a monstrousfable, and had never been tried by me. "

Darwin's school experiences were not always profitable. He says:

"I had many friends, and got together a good collection of old verses, which by patching together, sometimes aided by other boys, I couldwork into any subject. Much attention was paid to learning by heartthe lessons of the previous day. This I could effect with greatfacility, learning forty or fifty lines of Virgil or Homer whilst Iwas in morning chapel. But this exercise was utterly useless, forevery verse was forgotten in forty-eight hours. I was not idle, andwith the exception of versification, generally worked conscientiouslyat my classics, not using cribs. The sole pleasure I ever receivedfrom such studies, was from some of the odes of Horace, which Iadmired greatly. "

Of his years at Cambridge he writes:

"During the three years which I spent at Cambridge my time was wasted, as far as the academical studies were concerned, as completely as atEdinburgh and at school. I attempted mathematics, and even went, during the summer of 1828, with a private tutor (a very dull man) toBarmouth, but I got on very slowly. The work was repugnant to mechiefly from my not being able to see any meaning in the very earlysteps in algebra. This impatience was very foolish, and in after yearsI have deeply regretted that I did not proceed far enough at least tounderstand something of the great leading principles of mathematics, for men thus endowed seem to have an extra sense. .. . In order to passthe B. A. Examination, it was also necessary to get up Paley's_Evidences of Christianity_, and his _Moral Philosophy_. This was donein a thorough manner, and I am convinced that I could have written outthe whole of the _Evidences_ with perfect correctness, but not ofcourse in the clear language of Paley. The logic of this book and, asI may add, of his _Natural Theology_, gave me as much delight as didEuclid. The careful study of these works, without attempting to learnany part by rote, was the only part of the academical course which, asI then felt and as I still believe, was of the least use to me in theeducation of my mind. I did not at that time trouble myself aboutPaley's premises, and taking these on trust I was charmed andconvinced by the long line of argumentation. "

One of the great opportunities of Darwin's life came to him when, sometime after he had finished his course at Cambridge, he was offered aplace as naturalist on the _Beagle_, a ship sent by the Englishgovernment on a survey. At first Darwin thought he could not gobecause his father was opposed to the plan. Finally the father said hewould consent if any man of common sense should advise his son to go. This common sense man "was found in the person of his uncle, a JosiahWedgwood, who advised the father to permit his son to go. The voyagehas been described by Darwin, and thousands have been interested andprofited by the reading. Some of the letters that he wrote to hisfriends during his trip are also very interesting. Here is one hesent to his cousin, Fox:

"My mind has been, since leaving England, in a perfect _hurricane_ ofdelight and astonishment, and to this hour scarcely a minute haspassed in idleness. .. . Geology carries the day; it is like thepleasure of gambling. Speculating, on first arrival, what the rocksmay be, I often mentally cry out, three to one tertiary againstprimitive; but the latter has hitherto won all the bets. .. . My life, when at sea, is so quiet, that to a person who can employ himself, nothing can be pleasanter; the beauty of the sky and brilliancy of theocean together make a picture. But when on shore, and wandering in thesublime forests, surrounded by views more gorgeous than Claude everimagined, I enjoy a delight which none but those who have experiencedit can understand. If it is to be done, it must be by studyingHumboldt. At our ancient snug breakfasts, at Cambridge, I littlethought that the wide Atlantic would ever separate us; but it is arare privilege that with the body, the feelings and memory are notdivided. On the contrary, the pleasantest scenes of my life, many ofwhich have been at Cambridge, rise from the contrast of the presentthe more vividly in my imagination. "

From Valparaiso, after he had been two years on the voyage, he writesto a friend:

"That this voyage must come to a conclusion my reason tells me, otherwise I see no end to it. It is impossible not bitterly to regretthe friends and other sources of pleasure one leaves behind inEngland; in place of it there is much solid enjoyment, some present, but more in anticipation, when the ideas gained during the voyage canbe compared with fresh ones. I find in Geology a never-failinginterest, as it has been remarked, it creates the same grand ideasrespecting the world which astronomy does for the universe. We haveseen much fine scenery; that of the tropics in its glory andluxuriance exceeds even the language of Humboldt to describe. APersian writer could alone do justice to it, and if he succeeded hewould in England be called the 'Grandfather of all liars. '"

No one can read the life of Darwin without feeling great respect forhis perseverance. His faithful devotion to his work can teach us all auseful lesson. Says his son:

"No one except my mother, knows the full amount of suffering heendured, or the full amount of his wonderful patience. For all thelatter years of his life she never left him for a night, and her dayswere so planned that all his resting hours might be shared with her. She shielded him from every possible annoyance, and omitted nothingthat might save him trouble, or prevent his becoming overtired, orthat might alleviate the many discomforts of his ill-health. Ihesitate to speak thus freely of a thing so sacred as the life-longdevotion which prompted this constant and tender care. But it is, Irepeat, a principal feature of his life, that for nearly forty yearshe never knew one day of the health of ordinary men, and that thus hislife was one long struggle against the weariness and strain ofsickness. And this cannot be told without speaking of the onecondition which enabled him to bear the strain and fight out thestruggle to the end. "

That Darwin himself appreciated the goodness of his wife can be seenfrom the following tribute which has appeared in _More Letters ofCharles Darwin_. It does not appear in the _Autobiography_ becauseMrs. Darwin was living at the time of its publication. Where in allliterature can a more tender and beautiful appreciation be found?--

"You all know your mother, and what a good mother she has been to allof you. She has been my greatest blessing, and I can declare that inmy whole life I have never heard her utter one word I would ratherhave been unsaid. She has never failed in kindest sympathy towards me, and has borne with the utmost patience my frequent complaints ofill-health and discomfort. I do not believe she has ever missed anopportunity of doing a kind action to any one near her. I marvel at mygood fortune that she, so infinitely my superior in every single moralquality, consented to be my wife. She has been my wise adviser andcheerful comforter throughout life, which without her would have beenduring a very long period a miserable one from ill-health. She hasearned the love of every soul near her. "

XLIII

ANECDOTES OF HUXLEY

Huxley was more than one of the greatest scientists of the lastcentury; he was a man of literary ability. By his popular lectures andclear expositions he probably did more than any other man of thecentury to popularize the many and important discoveries of thescientific world. At first there was much opposition to him, owing toa lack of information on the part of the public as to the import ofthe doctrine of evolution. Ex-President Gilman of Johns HopkinsUniversity tells what a storm of protest was raised in America whenHuxley was invited to deliver the opening address at the founding ofthe new university. Huxley is not even now regarded as an orthodoxman, but much of the former prejudice has given way. 

John Fiske, who in so many ways can be regarded as the AmericanHuxley, has published a magazine article giving his impressions ofHuxley. In this article he gives two versions of a famous Huxleyanecdote. Here is one:

"It was at the meeting of the British Association at Oxford in 1860, soon after the publication of Darwin's epoch-making book, and whilepeople in general were wagging their heads at it, that the subjectcame up before a hostile and fashionable audience. Samuel Wilberforce, the plausible and self-complacent Bishop of Oxford, commonly known as'Soapy Sam, ' launched out in a rash speech, conspicuous for itsignorant mis-statements, and highly seasoned with appeals to theprejudices of the audience, upon whose lack of intelligence thespeaker relied. Near him sat Huxley, already known as a man ofscience, and known to look favorably upon Darwinism, but more or lessyouthful withal, only five-and-thirty, so that the bishop anticipatedsport in badgering him. At the close of his speech he suddenly turnedupon Huxley and begged to be informed if the learned gentleman wasreally willing to be regarded as the descendant of a monkey. Eagerself-confidence had blinded the bishop to the tactical blunder in thusinviting a retort. Huxley was instantly upon his feet with a speechdemolishing the bishop's card house of mistakes; and at the close heobserved that since a question of personal preferences had been veryimproperly brought into a discussion of a scientific theory, he feltfree to confess that if the alternatives were descent, on the one handfrom a respectable monkey, or on the other from a bishop of theEnglish church who would stoop to such misrepresentations and sophismsas the audience had lately listened to, he would declare in favor ofthe monkey!. .. It is curious to read that in the ensuing buzz ofexcitement a lady fainted, and had to be carried from the room; butthe audience were in general quite alive to the bishop's blunder inmanners and tactics, and, with the genuine English love of fair play, they loudly applauded Huxley. From that time forth it was recognizedthat he was not the sort of man to be browbeaten. As for BishopWilberforce, he carried with him from the affray no bitterness, butwas always afterwards most courteous to his castigator. "

Huxley was a great reader of history, poetry, metaphysics, andfiction, but this is not what made him a great scientist. Original menmake books, they do not need to read them. Yet Huxley loved to read. He even in his old age studied Greek to read Aristotle and the NewTestament in the original. But Huxley loved things even more thanbooks. He had little respect for mere bookish knowledge. "A rashclergyman once, without further equipment in natural science thandesultory reading, attacked the Darwinian theory in some sundrymagazine articles, in which he made himself uncommonly merry atHuxley's expense. This was intended to draw the great man's fire, andas the batteries remained silent the author proceeded to write toHuxley, calling his attention to the articles, and at the same time, with mock modesty, asking advice as to the further study of these deepquestions. Huxley's answer was brief and to the point: 'Take acockroach and dissect it. '"

Huxley was fond of children and their ways. His son, Leonard, tells usthat Julian, the grandchild of Huxley was a child made up of acombination of cherub and pickle. Huxley had been in his gardenwatering with a hose. The little four-year-old was with him. Huxleycame in and said: "I like that chap! I like the way he looks youstraight in the face and disobeys you. I told him not to go on thewet grass again. He just looked up boldly straight at me, as much asto say, 'What do _you_ mean by ordering me about?' and deliberatelywalked on to the grass. " In the spring the approval was not sodecided. "I like that chap; he looks you straight in the face. Butthere's a falling off in one respect since last August--he now doeswhat he is told. "

When Julian, the grandchild, was learning to read and write, he becameinterested in _Water-Babies_, a story that has delighted so manychildren. In it he found a reference to his grandfather as one whoknew much about water-babies. So he wrote to his grandfather:

 Dear Grandpater, have you seen a water baby? Did you put it in a bottle? Did it wonder if it could get out? Can I see it some day? Your loving JULIAN. 

This is the answer to the letter:

 March 24, 1892. MY DEAR JULIAN:

 I never could make out about that water-baby. I have seen babies in water and babies in bottles; but the baby in the water was not in the bottle and the baby in the bottle was not in the water. Ever your loving GRANDPATER. 

Huxley was also fond of cats and dogs and pets of all kind. His sontells us that once he found his father in an uncomfortable seat, whilethe cat had the best chair. He defended himself by saying that hecould not turn the beast away. In 1893 a man, who was writing on the_Pets of Celebrities_, wrote to him for information concerning hispersonal likings. Huxley sent him this letter:

 A long series of cats has reigned over my household for the last forty years or thereabouts; but I am sorry to say that I have no pictorial or other record of their physical and moral excellencies. 

 The present occupant of the throne is a large young gray tabby, Oliver by name. Not that in any sense he is a protector, for I doubt whether he has the heart to kill a mouse. However, I saw him catch and eat the first butterfly of the season, and trust that the germ of courage thus manifest may develop, with age, into efficient mousing. 

 As to sagacity, I should say that his judgment respecting the warmest place and the softest cushion in the room is infallible, his punctuality at meal-time is admirable, and his pertinacity in jumping on people's shoulders till they give him some of the best of what is going indicates great firmness. 

XLIV

STEVENSON AT VAILIMA

Robert Louis Stevenson, the writer of _Treasure Island_ and many otherexciting romances, was an exile from home during the last few years ofhis life. The state of his health demanded a sunny clime and so he wasforced to live in Samoa, a group of islands in the South Pacific. About three miles behind Apia, on a slight plateau seven hundred feetabove the level of the sea, he cleared the forest and made a house. "Ihave chosen the land to be my land, the people to be my people, tolive and die with, " said Stevenson in his speech to the Samoan chiefs. Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, his step-son, thus describes their abode:

"Unbroken forest covered Vailima when first we saw it; not the forestof the temperate zone with its varied glades and open spaces, but thethick tangle of the tropics, dense, dark, and cold in even the hottestday, where one must walk cutlass in hand to slash the lianas and thered-edged stinging leaves of a certain tree that continually bar one'spath. The murmur of streams and cascades fell sometimes upon our earsas we wandered in the deep shade, and mingled with the cooing of wilddoves and the mysterious, haunting sound of a native woodpecker atwork. Our Chinaman, who was with us on our first survey, busiedhimself with taking samples of the soil, and grew almost incoherentwith the richness of what he called the 'dirty. ' We, for our part, were no less enchanted with what we saw, and could realize, as weforced our way through the thickets and skirted the deep ravines, whata noble labor lay before our axes, what exquisite views and gloriousgardens could be carved out of the broken mountain side and the sullenforest. "

As Stevenson was afraid that villas might be made to intervene betweenhim and the sea, he bought much land that his view might be foreverunobstructed. He entered into the work of clearing the forest withvigorous delight. For months he lived in pioneer confusion. Gangs ofnative workmen worked from morning to night. 

"The new house was built, " says Mr. Osbourne; "I arrived from Englandwith the furniture, the library, and other effects of our old home;the phase of hard work and short commons passed gradually away, and aform of hollow comfort dawned upon us. I say hollow comfort, forthough we began to accumulate cows, horses, and the general apparatusof civilized life, the question of service became a vexing one. Anexpensive German cooked our meals and quarreled with the whitehouse-maid; the white overseer said 'that manual labor was the onething that never agreed with him, ' and that it was an unwholesomething for a man to be awakened in the early morning, 'for one ought towake up natural-like, ' he explained. The white carter 'couldn't bearwith niggers, ' and though he did his work well and faithfully, hehelped to demoralize the place and loosen discipline. Everything wasat sixes and sevens, when, on the occasion of Mrs. Stevenson's goingto Fiji for a few months' rest, my sister and I took charge ofaffairs. The expensive German was bidden to depart; Mr. Stevensondischarged the carter; the white overseer (who was tied to us bycontract) was bought off in cold coin, to sleep out his 'naturalsleep' under a kindlier star and to engage himself (presumably) inintellectual labors elsewhere. There are two sides to 'whiteslavery'--that cherished expression of the labor agitator--and withthe departure of our tyrants we began again to raise our diminishedheads. My sister and I threw ourselves into the kitchen, and took upthe labor of cooking with zeal and determination; the domesticboundaries proved too narrow for our new-found energies, and weoverflowed into the province of entertainment, with decorated menus, silver plate and finger-bowls! The aristocracy of Apia was pressed tolunch with us, to commend our independence and to eat our biscuits. Itwas a French Revolution in miniature; we danced the carmagnole in thekitchen and were prepared to conquer the Samoan social world. Onemorning, before the ardor and zest of it all had time to be dulled bycustom, I happened to discover a young and very handsome Samoan on ourback veranda. He was quite a dandified youngster, with a red flowerbehind his ear and his hair limed in the latest fashion. I liked hisopen, attractive face and his unembarrassed manner, and inquired whatpropitious fate had brought him to sit upon our ice-chest and radiategood nature on our back porch. It seemed that Simele, the overseer, owed him two Chile dollars, and that he was here, bland, friendly, butinsistent, to collect the debt in person. That Simele would not beback for hours in no way daunted him, and he seemed prepared to swinghis brown legs and show his white teeth for a whole eternity. 

"'Chief, ' I said, a sudden thought striking me, 'you are he that Ihave been looking for so long. You are going to stay in Vailima and beour cook!'

"'But I don't know how to cook, ' he replied. 

"'That is no matter, ' I said. 'Two months ago I was as you; to-day Iam a splendid cook. I will teach you my skill. '

"'But I don't want to learn, ' he said, and brought back theconversation to Chile dollars. 

"'There is no good making excuses, ' I said. 'This is a psychologicalmoment in the history of Vailima. You are the Man of Destiny. '

"'But I haven't my box, ' he expostulated. 

"'I will send for it, ' I returned. 'I would not lose you for twentyboxes. If you need clothes, why there stands my own chest; flowersgrow in profusion and the oil-bottle rests never empty beside myhumble bed; and in the hot hours of the afternoon there is thebeautifulest pool where one can bathe and wash one's lovely hair. Moreover, so generous are the regulations of Tusitala's (Stevenson's)government that his children receive weekly large sums of money, andthey are allowed on Sundays to call their friends to this eleganthouse and entertain them with salt beef and biscuit. '

"Thus was Taalolo introduced into the Vailima kitchen, never to leaveit for four years save when the war-drum called him to the front witha six-shooter and a 'death-tooth'--the Samoan war-cutlass orhead-knife. He became in time not only an admirable chef, but thenucleus of the whole native establishment and the loyalest of ourwhole Samoan family. His coming was the turning-point in the historyof the house. We had achieved independence of our white masters, andtheir discontented white faces had disappeared one by one. Honestbrown ones now took their places and we gained more than good servantsby the change. "

The following incident illustrates the high regard in which Stevensonwas held by the native Samoans. When Mataafa, a claimant for thethrone of Upolo, was imprisoned by the European powers, Stevensonvisited him in prison and gave him tobacco and other gifts to cheerthe disconsolate chief. He also visited other prisoners who had sidedin the affairs of Mataafa. When they were released they wished to showtheir gratitude in some tangible way. So they built a fine wide roadto the home of the famous writer, a work which they disliked but whichtheir love for Stevenson enabled them to accomplish. They called it"The Road of the Loving-Heart. " Once when his favorite body-servant, Sosimo, had anticipated some of his master's wants and Stevenson hadcomplimented him with, "Great is the wisdom!" "Nay, " replied Sosimowith truer insight, "Great is the Love!"

Stevenson's manner of life at Vailima was somewhat like this: At sixo'clock or earlier he arose and began the day's work. By dawn therest of the household were up, and at about eight his wife's daughterbegan to take his dictation, working from then until noon. Theafternoons were usually spent in some form of recreation--riding was afavorite pastime. He was fond of strolling through the tropicalforest, and of taking part in any of the numerous outdoor sports. However, when he was in the height of literary inspiration, he stayedat his desk all day long. 

On Sunday evening the household was always called together forprayers; a chapter was read from the Samoan Bible, Samoan hymns weresung and one of Stevenson's own beautiful prayers, one usually writtenfor the occasion, was read, concluding with the Lord's Prayer in thetongue of the natives. In the dominant note of these prayers, the callfor courage and cheerfulness, one can hear the cry of the dyingStevenson's need: "The day returns and brings us the petty round ofirritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us toperform them with laughter and kind faces, let cheerfulness aboundwith industry. .. . Give us health, food, bright weather, and lighthearts. .. . As the sun lightens the world, so let our loving-kindnessmake bright the house of our habitation. "

Stevenson died as he wished--in the midst of his work. After a dayspent in writing his _Weir of Hermiston_, a day full of life andgayety, he suddenly fainted and died a short time afterwards. In theprayer offered the evening before had been this sentence, --"When theday returns, return to us our sun and comforter, and call us up withmorning faces and with morning hearts, eager to be happy, ifhappiness shall be our portion--and if the day be marked for sorrow, strong to endure it. "

On the following morning a group of powerful Samoans bore the coffinupon their shoulders to the summit of Mount Vaea, where it was thewish of Mr. Stevenson that he should rest. One of the inscriptionsupon the tomb is his own noble _Requiem_:

 Under the wide and starry sky Dig the grave and let me lie; Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. 

 This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill. 

XLV

KIPLING IN INDIA

In four lines of oft-quoted poetry Pope has declared that with wordsthe same rule holds that applies to fashion, --"Alike fantastic if toonew or old. " Fashion changes, not only the fashions of millinery butof literature also. When the world is tired of the brilliant wit ofByron, it turns in relief to the contemplative verse of Wordsworth;when Longfellow and Tennyson have had their artistic day and athousand imitators have produced romantic poetry, because

 Most can raise the flowers now For all have got the seed, --

then this same world turns with delight to the robust poetry ofKipling. He has brought a new dish to the banquet of life, or at leasta new flavor has been given to the old. 

Kipling is a man's poet, robust and virile. As a preface to one of hisstories he wrote:

 Go stalk the red deer o'er the heather, Ride, follow the fox, if you can! But for pleasure and profit together Allow me the hunting of man;--

and this joy in the hunting of man is what has made Kipling soacceptable to men. Kipling has the defects of his virtues. There is acertain brutality in his point of view. His beautiful _Recessional_ isnot the greater part of Kipling. His voice "is still for war. " Hiscritics charge him with "Jingoism. " One of the most brilliant parodiesof recent times is Watson's

 Best by remembering God, say some, We keep our high imperial lot-- Fortune, I think, has mainly come When we forgot, when we forgot!

The greater influence of Kipling, both in his prose and poetry, iscontrary to the humanitarian spirit of the age. Le Gallienne hassaid, --"As a writer Mr. Kipling is a delight; as an influence adanger. "

Mr. Kipling sprang into public notice because he had genius andbecause he had a new world to reveal to a jaded public. Mr. E. KayRobinson was a friend and associate of Kipling when both were in theland of mysteries, India. Mr. Robinson went to India in 1884 and soonbegan to write verses over the signature of "K. R. " Kipling was writingballads under the initials "R. K. " The similarity of the signaturesattracted Kipling and he wrote to Robinson. They were afterwardsassociated in newspaper work and became close friends. Robinson haswritten about Kipling in India:

"My first sight of Kipling was at an uninteresting stage, when he wasa short, square, dark youth, who unfortunately wore spectacles insteadof eyeglasses and had an unlucky eye for color in the selection of hisclothes. He had a weakness apparently for brown cloth with just thatsuggestion of ruddiness or purple in it which makes some browns socuriously conspicuous. The charm of his manner, however, made youforget what he looked like in half a minute. .. . 

"Among Kipling's early journalistic experiences was his involuntaryassumption 'for this occasion only' of the rôle of the fightingeditor. He was essentially a man of peace, and would always prefermaking an angry man laugh to fighting with him; but one day therecalled at the office a very furious photographer. What the paper mayhave said about him or his photographs has been forgotten, but neverwill those who witnessed it forget the rough-and-tumble all over thefloor in which he and Kipling indulged. The libel, or whatever it was, which had infuriated the photographer was not Kipling's work, but thequarrel was forced upon him, and although he was handicapped by hisspectacles and smaller stature he made a very fine draw of it, andthen the photographer--who, it may be remarked, was very drunk--wasejected. And Kipling wiped his glasses and buttoned his collar. 

"That trick of wiping his spectacles is one which Kipling indulgedmore frequently than any man I have ever met, for the simple reasonthat he was always laughing; and when you laugh till you nearly cryyour spectacles get misty. Kipling, shaking all over with laughter, and wiping his spectacles at the same time with his handkerchief, isthe picture which always comes to mind as most characteristic of himin the old days. "

With regard to Kipling's minute and exact knowledge of details Mr. Robinson has this to say:

"To learn to write as soldiers think, he spent long hours loafing withthe genuine article. He watched them at work and at play and at prayerfrom the points of view of all his confidants--the combatant officer, the doctor, the chaplain, the drill sergeant, and the private himself. With the navy, with every branch of sport, and with natural history, he has never wearied in seeking to learn all that man may learn atfirst-hand, or the very best second-hand, at any rate. .. . But mostwonderful was his insight into the strangely mixed manners of life andthought of the natives of India. He knew them all through theirhorizontal divisions of rank and their vertical sections of caste;their ramifications of race and blood; their antagonisms and blendingsof creed; their hereditary strains of calling or handicraft. Show hima native, and he would tell you his rank, caste, race, origin, habitat, creed, and calling. He would speak to the man in his ownfashion, using familiar, homely figures, which brightened the other'ssurprised eyes with recognition of brotherhood and opened a straightway into his confidence. In two minutes the man--perhaps a wild hawkfrom the Afghan hills--would be pouring out into the ear of thissahib, with heaven-sent knowledge and sympathy, the weird tale of theblood feud and litigation, the border fray, and the usurer's iniquity, which had driven him so far afield as Lahore from Bajaur. To Kiplingeven the most suspected and suspicious of classes, the religiousmendicants, would open their mouths freely. 

"By the road thick with the dust of camels and thousands of cattle andgoats, which winds from Lahore Fort to the River Ravi, there arewalled caravanserais the distant smell of which more than suffices formost of the Europeans who pass, but sitting with the travelers in thereeking inside Kipling heard weird tales and gathered much knowledge. Under a spreading peepul tree overhanging a well by the same roadsquatted daily a ring of almost naked fakirs, smeared with ashes, whoscowled at the European driving by; but for Kipling there was, when hewished it, an opening in the squatting circle and much to be learnedfrom the unsavory talkers. That is how Kipling's finishedword-pictures take the lifelike aspect of instantaneous photographs. "

XLVI

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN RUNS AWAY

Benjamin Franklin had so many strong qualities, was eminent in so manylines of endeavor, that we do not always include him among theliterary men of America. However, his _Autobiography_ is amasterpiece. In sincerity and simplicity it is unsurpassed. This isall the more remarkable because it was written at a time when ornatewriting was the fashion. A man's style is the outgrowth of his nature, and it is a striking comment upon the robust quality of Franklin'smind that his style has the simplicity of the Bible, or _Pilgrim'sProgress_. 

The following account, taken from his _Autobiography_, begins justafter he has landed in New York, a boy of seventeen who has run awayfrom home because he felt that his brother was not treating himfairly:

My inclinations for the sea were by this time worn out, or I might nowhave gratified them. But, having a trade, and supposing myself apretty good workman, I offered my service to the printer in the place, old Mr. William Bradford, who had been the first printer inPennsylvania, but removed from thence upon the quarrel of GeorgeKeith. He could give me no employment, having little to do and helpenough already; but, says he, "My son at Philadelphia has lately losthis principal hand, Aquilla Rose, by death; if you go thither Ibelieve he may employ you. " Philadelphia was a hundred miles farther;I set out, however, in a boat for Amboy, leaving my chest and thingsto follow me round by sea. 

 [Illustration: BENJAMIN FRANKLIN From a portrait by Duplessis]

In crossing the bay we met with a squall that tore our rotten sails topieces, prevented our getting into the Kill, and drove us upon LongIsland. In our way, a drunken Dutchman, who was a passenger too, felloverboard. When he was sinking, I reached through the water to hisshock pate, and drew him up so that we got him in again. His duckingsobered him a little, and he went to sleep, taking first out of hispocket a book, which he desired I would dry for him. It proved to bemy old favorite author, Bunyan's _Pilgrim's Progress_, in Dutch, finely printed on good paper, with copper cuts, a dress better than Ihad ever seen it wear in its own language. I have since found that ithas been translated into most of the languages of Europe, and supposeit has been more generally than any other book, except, perhaps, theBible. Honest John was the first that I know of who mixed narrationand dialogue; a method of writing very engaging to the reader, who inthe most interesting parts finds himself, as it were, brought into thecompany and present at the discourse. Defoe in his _Crusoe_, his _MollFlanders_, _Religious Courtship_, _Family Instructor_, and otherpieces, has imitated it with success, and Richardson has done the samein his _Pamela_, etc. 

When we drew near the island we found it was at a place where therecould be no landing, there being a great surf on the stony beach. Sowe dropped anchor, and swung round toward the shore. Some people camedown to the water edge and hallooed to us, as we did to them; but thewind was so high and the surf so loud that we could not hear so as tounderstand each other. There were canoes on the shore, and we madesigns, and hallooed that they should fetch us, but they either did notunderstand us or thought it impracticable, so they went away, andnight coming on, we had no remedy but to wait till the wind shouldabate. In the meantime, the boatman and I concluded to sleep if wecould, and so crowded into the scuttle with the Dutchman, who wasstill wet, and the spray beating over the head of our boat leakedthrough to us, so that we were almost as wet as he. In this manner welay all night, with very little rest; but the wind abating the nextday, we made a shift to reach Amboy before night, having been thirtyhours on the water, without victuals, or any drink but a bottle offilthy rum, the water we sailed on being salt. 

In the evening I found myself very feverish, and went in to bed; but, having read somewhere that cold water, drunk plentifully, was good fora fever, I followed the prescription, sweat plentifully most of thenight, my fever left me, and in the morning, crossing the ferry, Iproceeded on my journey on foot, having fifty miles to Burlington, where I was told I should find boats that would carry me the rest ofthe way to Philadelphia. 

It rained very hard all the day. I was thoroughly soaked, and by noona good deal tired, so I stopped at a poor inn, where I stayed allnight, beginning now to wish that I had never left home. I cut somiserable a figure, too, that I found, by the questions asked me, Iwas suspected to be some runaway servant and in danger of being takenup on that suspicion. However, I proceeded the next day, and got inthe evening to an inn, within eight or ten miles of Burlington, keptby one Dr. Brown. He entered into conversation with me while I tooksome refreshment, and finding I had read a little, became verysociable and friendly. Our acquaintance continued as long as he lived. He had been, I imagine, an itinerant doctor, for there was no town inEngland, or country in Europe, of which he could not give a veryparticular account. He had some letters, and was ingenious, but muchof an unbeliever, and wickedly undertook, some years after, totravesty the Bible in doggerel verse, as Cotton had done Virgil. Bythis means he set many of the facts in a very ridiculous light, andmight have hurt weak minds if his work had been published; but itnever was. 

At his house I lay that night, and the next morning reachedBurlington, but had the mortification to find that the regular boatswere gone a little before my coming, and no other expected to gobefore Tuesday, this being Saturday; wherefore I returned to an oldwoman in the town of whom I had bought gingerbread to eat on thewater, and asked her advice. She invited me to lodge at her house tilla passage by water should offer; and, being tired with my foottraveling, I accepted the invitation. She, understanding I was aprinter, would have had me stay at that town and follow my business, being ignorant of the stock necessary to begin with. She was veryhospitable, gave me a dinner of ox cheek with great good will, accepting only of a pot of ale in return; and I thought myself fixedtill Tuesday should come. However, walking in the evening by the sideof the river, a boat came by, which I found was going towardPhiladelphia, with several people in her. They took me in, and, asthere was no wind, we rowed all the way, and about midnight, nothaving yet seen the city, some of the company were confident we musthave passed it, and would row no farther. The others knew not where wewere, so we put toward the shore, got into a creek, and landed near anold fence, with the rails of which we made a fire, the night beingcold, in October, and there we remained till daylight. Then one of thecompany knew the place to be Cooper's Creek, a little abovePhiladelphia, which we saw as soon as we got out of the creek, andarrived there about eight or nine o'clock on the Sunday morning, andlanded at the Market Street wharf. 

I have been the more particular in this description of my journey, andshall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in yourmind compare such unlikely beginnings with the figure I have sincemade there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to comeround by sea. I was dirty from my journey; my pockets were stuffed outwith shirts and stockings, and I knew no soul, nor where to look forlodging. I was fatigued with traveling, rowing, and want of rest; Iwas very hungry, and my whole stock of cash consisted of a Dutchdollar and about a shilling in copper. The latter I gave the peopleof the boat for my passage, who at first refused it, on account of myrowing; but I insisted on their taking it, a man being sometimes moregenerous when he has but a little money than when he has plenty, perhaps through fear of being thought to have but little. 

Then I walked up the street, gazing about, till near the market houseI met a boy with bread. I had made many a meal on bread, and, inquiring where he got it, I went immediately to the baker's hedirected me to, in Second Street, and asked for biscuit, intendingsuch as we had in Boston; but they, it seems, were not made inPhiladelphia. Then I asked for a threepenny loaf, and was told theyhad none such. So not considering or knowing the difference of moneyand the greater cheapness, nor the names of his bread, I bade him giveme threepenny worth of any sort. He gave me, accordingly, three greatpuffy rolls. I was surprised at the quantity, but took it, and, havingno room in my pockets, walked off with a roll under each arm, andeating the other. Thus I went up Market Street as far as FourthStreet, passing by the door of Mr. Read, my future wife's father; whenshe, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainlydid, a most awkward, ridiculous appearance. Then I turned and wentdown Chestnut Street and part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all theway, and, coming round, found myself again on Market Street wharf, near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draught of the riverwater; and, being filled with one of my rolls, gave the other two to awoman and her child that came down the river in the boat with us, andwere waiting to go farther. 

Thus refreshed, I walked again up the street, which by this time hadmany clean-dressed people in it, who were all walking the same way. Ijoined them, and was thereby led into the great meetinghouse of theQuakers near the market. I sat down among them, and, after lookinground awhile and hearing nothing said, being very drowsy through laborand want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleep, andcontinued so till the meeting broke up, when one was kind enough torouse me. This was, therefore, the first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia. 

Walking down again toward the river, and looking in the faces ofpeople, I met a young Quaker man, whose countenance I liked, and, accosting him, requested he would tell me where a stranger could getlodging. We were then near the sign of the Three Mariners. "Here, "says he, "is one place that entertains strangers, but it is not areputable house; if thee wilt walk with me I'll show thee a better. "He brought me to the Crooked Billet, in Water Street. Here I got adinner, and while I was eating it several sly questions were asked me, as it seemed to be suspected from my youth and appearance that I mightbe some runaway. 

After dinner my sleepiness returned, and, being shown to a bed, I laydown without undressing and slept till six in the evening, was calledto supper, went to bed again very early, and slept soundly till nextmorning. Then I made myself as tidy as I could, and went to AndrewBradford the printer's. I found in the shop the old man, his father, whom I had seen in New York, and who, traveling on horseback, had gotto Philadelphia before me. He introduced me to his son, who receivedme civilly, and gave me a breakfast, but told me he did not at presentwant a hand, being lately supplied with one; but there was anotherprinter in town, lately set up, one Keimer, who, perhaps, might employme; if not, I should be welcome to lodge at his house, and he wouldgive me a little work to do now and then till fuller business shouldoffer. 

XLVII

WASHINGTON IRVING

Washington Irving may be called the father of American literature. Itis true he is not the first writer who flourished on American soil, but in point of accomplishment he is the first literary man to impresshimself upon the readers of the two continents. And what a sweet, beautiful soul he is! The only rival he has is Franklin, and Franklinis not a literary man, though he produced a literary masterpiece inhis _Autobiography_. The test of a great piece of literature is, In ahundred years can it be bought in a new edition for ten cents? The NewTestament can be bought for ten cents, so can the _Autobiography_, andthe _Sketch Book_. These emerge from the sea of mediocrity of earlyAmerican life. They abide while the works of the Michael Wigglesworthsand Anne Bradstreets can be found only in the collections of thefortunate book-lover. 

The early settlers believed in the virtue of large families. It iswell, for otherwise Franklin and Irving would have been lost toAmerican life. Franklin was the youngest son in a family of seventeenchildren, there were two girls younger (Benjamin was the eighth childof the second wife), and Irving was the eighth son and last child ina family of eleven children. It is not hard to account for Irving'sfirst name. Nowadays when you meet a boy named Dewey or Garfield it isnot difficult to guess the boy's age. Irving was born in 1783; the airwas laden with the praises of the great American leader. "Washington'swork is ended, " said the mother, "and the child shall be named afterhim. " Several years after this when Washington, as President, was inNew York, Lizzie, the Scotch servant of the Irving family, followedthe great man into a shop and said, "Please, your honor, here's abairn was named after you. " Washington placed his hand on the lad'shead and gave him a fatherly blessing. 

Like Lowell and Bryant, Irving was first devoted to the law, but hisdevotion was not of the quality that consumes. He soon strayed intopleasanter paths. In January, 1807, appeared the first number of_Salmagundi_, a humorous periodical which caused a great deal ofcuriosity as to the authors, whose witty articles appearedanonymously. Two years later came the droll _History of New York byDiedrich Knickerbocker_, a book in which according to Scott were to beseen traces of the wit of Swift. Scott said that he used to read italoud to his wife and guests until "our sides were absolutely sorewith laughing. "

Before this work had appeared, Irving lost in three consecutive yearsthree persons who would have rejoiced the most in his success, --hisfather, "the tenderest and best of sisters, a woman of whom a brothermight be proud, " and his sweetheart, Matilda Hoffman. She was a rareand beautiful maiden who had kindled in the heart of Irving a passionwhich survived her death until he himself passed away an old man. Whenhe died his friends found her miniature and a lock of fair hair, together with the part of a manuscript written for a lady who hadasked Irving why he had never married. Describing Miss Hoffman hesays:

"The more I saw her, the more I had reason to admire her. Her mindseemed to unfold itself leaf by leaf, and every time to discover newsweetness. Nobody knew her so well as I, for she was generallysilent. .. . Never did I meet with more intuitive rectitude of mind, more delicacy, more exquisite propriety in word, thought, and actionthan in this young creature. Her brilliant little sister used to saythat 'people began by admiring her, but ended by loving Matilda. ' Formy part I idolized her. " Irving then continues by giving a longaccount of his efforts to succeed in his literary and legal work witha view of earning a place in life so as to enable him to marry. "Inthe midst of this struggle and anxiety she fell into a consumption. Icannot tell you what I suffered. .. . I saw her fade rapidly away, beautiful, and more beautiful, and more angelic to the very last. Iwas often by her bedside, and when her mind wandered she would talk tome with a sweet, natural, and affecting eloquence that wasoverpowering. I saw more of the beauty of her mind in that deliriousstate than I ever had before. .. . I was by her when she died, and wasthe last she ever looked upon. .. . She was but seventeen. "

So poignant was the grief of Irving that for thirty years after herdeath he did not like any one to mention her name to him. One day hewas visiting her father when one of her nieces, taking some music froma drawer, brought with it a piece of embroidery. "Washington, " saidMr. Hoffman, "this was poor Matilda's work. " The effect wasinstantaneous. The light-hearted conversationalist of a moment beforebecame silent and soon left the house. When in _Bracebridge Hall_ hewrites, --"I have loved as I never again shall love in this world--Ihave been loved as I shall never again be loved, "--is he not thinkingof the fair Matilda? And in a note-book we find, --"She died in thebeauty of her youth, and in my memory she will ever be young andbeautiful. "

In May, 1815, Irving went abroad for the second time. His purpose wasto stay a few months; he remained seventeen years. The first sightthat greeted the newly arrived American in Liverpool was themail-coach bringing the news of the battle of Waterloo. Irving'ssympathies were with Napoleon. "In spite of all his misdeeds he is anoble fellow, and I am confident will eclipse in the eyes of posterityall the crowned wiseacres that have crushed him by their overwhelmingconfederacy. " In the year 1818 the Irving brothers went intobankruptcy. Washington's interest in the business was that of ayounger brother who had little responsibility. But of late years hehad been much harassed by the accumulating troubles. With the end ofthe business anxieties he turns to literature with a whole-souleddevotion. His home friends tried to secure for him the position ofSecretary of the Legation in London; his brother William wrote thatCommodore Decatur was keeping open for his acceptance the office ofChief Clerk in the Navy Department; but Irving turned the offersaside. Irving is usually imaged as a sunshiny, genial, easy-goinggentleman into whose blood little of the iron of firmness had beeninfused. The fact that he not only refused these offers but alsorejected offers from Scott and Murray shows that he had will enough tokeep to the bent of his genius at a time when he needed money andinfluence. Murray offered him a salary of £1000 a year to be theeditor of a periodical. 

The first number of the _Sketch Book_ appeared in May, 1819, andconsisted mainly in point of merit of two papers, _The Wife_ and _RipVan Winkle_. The series was finished in 1820. The work was highlysuccessful in America, and Irving was deeply moved by the cordialexpressions of praise that reached him. His manly nature is revealedin a letter to a friend in which he says, --"I hope you will notattribute all this sensibility to the kind reception I have met to anauthor's vanity. I am sure it proceeds from very different sources. Vanity could not bring the tears into my eyes as they have beenbrought by the kindness of my countrymen. I have felt cast down, blighted, and broken-spirited, and these sudden rays of sunshineagitate me more than they revive me. I hope--I hope I may yet dosomething more worthy of the appreciation lavished on me. "

Irving had not intended to publish the _Sketch Book_ in England, butowing to reprints by others he was obliged to take the matter in hisown hands. Murray refused to undertake the work. Then Irving becamehis own publisher. But the work sold so well that Murray bought thecopyright for two hundred pounds. 

In 1826 we find Irving in Spain. To the American reader the name ofSpain is forever associated with that of Irving, for _The Alhambra_, _The Conquest of Granada_, and _The Life of Columbus_ are the richevidences of his absorption of the spirit of Spain. The _Life ofColumbus_ was written with great care. Irving wanted to producesomething that would do credit to the scholarship of his lovedAmerica. Murray paid about fifteen thousand dollars for the Englishcopyright. For the _Conquest of Granada_ he received ten thousanddollars, and for _The Alhambra_ a Mr. Bentley paid five thousand. 

While Irving was in Madrid one of his most welcome visitors wasLongfellow, then a young man of twenty, fresh from college. Writing tohis father Longfellow says, --"Mr. Rich's family is very agreeable, andWashington Irving always makes one there in the evening. This isaltogether delightful, for he is one of those men who put you at easewith them in a moment. He makes no ceremony whatever with one, and ofcourse is a very fine man in society, all mirth and good humor. He hasa most beautiful countenance, and a very intellectual one, but he hassome halting and hesitating in his conversation, and says verypleasant, agreeable things in a husky, weak, peculiar voice. He has adark complexion, dark hair, whiskers already a little gray. This is avery offhand portrait of so illustrious a man. "

It is interesting to compare this sketch with one that Longfellow drewfrom memory many years later, --"I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Irving in Spain, and found the author, whom I had loved, repeated inthe man. The same playful humor, the same touches of sentiment, thesame poetic atmosphere; and what I admired still more, the entireabsence of all literary jealousy, of all that mean avarice of famewhich counts what is given to another as so much taken from one'sself. .. . Passing his house at the early hour of six one summermorning, I saw his study window already wide open. On my mentioning itto him afterwards he said, 'Yes, I am always at work by six. ' Sincethen I have often remembered that sunny morning and that open window, so suggestive of his sunny temperament and his open heart, and equallyso of his patient and persistent toil. "

Irving's career is usually looked upon as ideal. In many ways it wassingularly blessed. Friends, influence, fame, and wealth were his. When an American publisher undertook the issuing of a new edition ofIrving's works in 1848, there was much uncertainty as to the successof the venture, but the author received eighty-eight thousand dollarsfrom 1848 to 1859. He also had the satisfaction of working to thelast, although the last year was one of suffering. "I am ratherfatigued, my dear, by my night's rest, " he replied to the anxiousinquiry of a niece. He had been hard at work upon his _Life ofWashington_, and he sometimes feared he might have overtaxed hisbrain. "I do not fear death, " he said, "but I would like to go downwith all sails set. "

This modest prayer was granted. To the day of his death he was able toreceive visitors, talk intelligently, read for his own pleasure, andtake short drives. The day before he died he attended church, and oncoming home he remarked that he must "get a dispensation to allowwhist on Sunday evenings, " because he dreaded the long, lonely nights. On Monday he went to bed, and as he turned to arrange the pillows hegave a slight exclamation and instantly expired. 

By his mother's side they laid him, in a cemetery overlooking theHudson and the valley of Sleepy Hollow, a region made forever famousby the genial pen of Irving. "I could not but remember his last wordsto me, " writes a friend who made a pilgrimage to the spot on the dayof the funeral, "when his book was finished and his health wasfailing: 'I am getting ready to go. I am shutting up my doors andwindows. ' And I could not but feel that they were all open now, andbright with the light of eternal morning. "

XLVIII

COOPER AND "THE SPY"

James Fenimore Cooper is one of the most interesting characters in thehistory of American authorship. Irving, Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, and Hawthorne early in life showed their literary bent, andlived academic and peaceful careers. They were also popular. Cooperwas thirty years old before he thought of writing, and his life wasembittered by the consciousness that he was the target of the mostbitter criticism, both at home and abroad. Yet not one of thedistinguished authors I have named is more widely known to-day thanCooper. Matthew Arnold has said somewhere that an author's place inthe future is to be determined by his contemporaneous ranking inforeign lands. If that is true the names of Mark Twain, Cooper, WaltWhitman, and Poe will rank high in the annals of posterity, for theirEuropean fame is said to be the most general of any of the Americanwriters. 

There is an appealing fascination about the boyhood days of Cooper. When James was a babe of fourteen months his father moved to theheadwaters of the Susquehanna. The family consisted of fifteenpersons; James, the future novelist, was the eleventh of twelvechildren. Their home was in the midst of the forest. Near by was thecharming lake, Otsego. The father owned several thousand acres, andwas, probably, the most prominent man in that sparsely-settled region. What boy would want a finer opportunity to indulge all the wildpropensities that lurk in the untamed heart of every healthyyoungster? To roam in the untracked forest, to sail the lake, to hunt, to fish, to dream of the great unknown world lying just beyond thesun-tipped trees, --what can the schools give in exchange for this? Isit surprising that the wholesomeness of the forest and the charm andfreshness of God's out-of-doors found their way into the man's novels, when so many delightful boyhood experiences must have found their wayinto the boy's heart?

As I said, Cooper was thirty years old before he began to write. Hehad studied under an Episcopal rector, and was intending to enter thejunior class at Yale; the rector died and Cooper entered the secondterm of the freshman class; for some frolic in which he was engaged hewas dismissed; he then entered the navy, where he gathered valuableexperience which he worked afterwards into literature; he married;resigned, and lived the quiet life of a country gentleman. One day hethrew down an English novel he had been reading and said to his wife, "I believe I could write a better story myself. " Now this is a feelingthat many of us have had, but few of us are put to the test. Cooper'swife fortunately told him to make the trial. He did so, and_Precaution_ was the result. This was published in 1820. As a novelit is a failure; as a literary document it is highly interesting. _Precaution_ is a story of English life. Why should Cooper write ofAmerican life when all Americans seemed to consider American life dulland prosaic? Politically we were free; intellectually we were slaves. The English lark sang in American poetry and English lords talked inAmerican novels. It was not until 1837 that Emerson gave that famousaddress, _The American Scholar_, an event which Lowell calls "withoutany former parallel in our literary annals, " and which Holmes declaredto be "our intellectual Declaration of Independence. "

_Precaution_ has been called a failure, but it was not so much of afailure that Cooper's friends discouraged him from trying again. No, it was a first attempt and gave promise of something better. Why notwrite about American scenes and events? The very neighborhood in whichhe lived had been the scene of many stirring adventures during theRevolutionary conflict. "Years before, while at the residence of JohnJay, his host had given him, one summer afternoon, the account of aspy that had been in his service during the war. The coolness, shrewdness, fearlessness, but above all the unselfish patriotism ofthe man had profoundly impressed the Revolutionary leader who hademployed him. The story made an equally deep impression upon Cooper atthe time. He now resolved to take it as the foundation of the tale hehad been persuaded to write. "

Near the close of 1821 _The Spy_ appeared. In March of the followingyear a third edition was on the market. The work soon appeared inEngland, published by Miller, the same publisher that had firstventured to bring Irving's _Sketch Book_ before the English public. InEngland the book was at once successful. This meant much to theAmerican estimate of the author's ability, for American critics wereafraid to praise a work that had not yet been applauded by England. Inthis same year, 1822, a French translation appeared. In France thework was enthusiastically received. This was the first of manytranslations into many European languages. Its influence in teachingpatriotism cannot be estimated, nor can its value as an effectiveretort to the sneer "Who reads an American book?" ever be overlooked. 

About the early life of Cooper there are unfortunately but fewanecdotes. One reason for this lack of _personalia_ about a man whohad a most vigorous personality is due to his dying request. Heenjoined upon his family that they permit no authorized biography toappear. Because of this we have lost much that would be valuable inestimating the character of Cooper. There is a story that when he wasa young man he engaged in a foot-race for a prize of a basket offruit. "While Cooper and his competitor were preparing to start, alittle girl stood by full of eagerness for the exciting event. Cooperquickly turned and picked her up in his arms. 'I'll carry her and beatyou!' he exclaimed, and away they went, Cooper with his laughingburden, the other runner untrammeled. It is almost needless to addthat Cooper won the race, else why should the story have beenpreserved?" One cannot help speculating about the size of the girl andthe speed of the rival runner, if this story is true. 

A more satisfying story is that told of Cooper's meeting with Scott. In 1826 Cooper went to Europe. With a family of ten persons he movedabout for seven years. Italy, France, Germany, Switzerland, andEngland were visited. When in Paris the two romancers met. 

"Est ce Monsieur Cooper que j'ai l'honneur de voir?"

"Monsieur je m'appelle Cooper. "

"Eh bien, donc, je suis Walter Scott. "

After a minute or two of French Sir Walter suddenly recollectedhimself and said: "Well, here have I been _parley vooing_ to you in away to surprise you, no doubt, but these Frenchmen have got my tongueso set to their lingo that I have half forgotten my own language. "

I have said that Cooper was not popular. This is not putting it strongenough. He was more than unpopular; he was hated by his neighbors, andslandered by the press at home and abroad. This lamentable conditionof affairs was not due to any despicable qualities in the man, forCooper was a kind father, an affectionate husband, a good citizen, andan honest, truth-loving man. These seem admirable qualities. Of few ofus can much higher praise be spoken. Why then did the citizens ofCooper's home village hold a mass meeting and pass resolutions to theeffect that Cooper had rendered "himself odious to a greater portionof the citizens of this community, " and why should _Fraser'sMagazine_, three thousand miles away, call Cooper "a liar, a biliousbraggart, a full jackass, an insect, a grub, and a reptile"?

The cause is not far to seek. Cooper was the most disputatious man inthe history of American literature. Cooper used to tell the story ofthe man who in an argument was met with: "Why it is as plain as thattwo and two make four. " "But I deny that too, " was the retort, "fortwo and two make twenty two. " Cooper was himself that sort of a man. He always had a quarrel on his hands. The more pugnacious a man is, the more militant he will find society. He instituted libel suitsagainst the most prominent editors in the country, among them HoraceGreeley and Thurlow Weed. And what is more to the point, --he won hiscases. But this did not make him any more popular with the press. Whenwe remember that Billingsgate was an important part of the literaryequipment of the critic of Cooper's time, we need not be surprisedthat Cooper's pugnacity evoked such sweet disinterestedness as ParkBenjamin indulged in when he called Cooper "a superlative dolt, and acommon mark of scorn and contempt of every well-informed American. "

In addition to this denunciation of Cooper as a man, there have inrecent years arisen severe criticisms on Cooper as a writer. "Thereare nineteen rules, " writes Mark Twain, "governing literary art in thedomain of romantic fiction--some say twenty-two. In _Deerslayer_Cooper violated eighteen of them. " And then Mark Twain gives us thedetailed specifications. It is very cleverly put, this criticism ofMark Twain's. But the astounding fact remains that the one rule Cooperdid not violate seems to secure him a place in the Pantheon ofauthors. Along with Poe, and Whitman, and Mark himself, Cooper isfound in various editions on the shelves of the bookdealers and in thelibraries of the book-lovers from the Thames to the Volga. If Cooperhad observed only one or two more of the rules of literary art, wherewould he stand? One is reminded of the Dutchman who was told that thisclock would run eight days without winding. "Ach, Himmel, what wouldshe do if she was woundt?"

The one literary sin that Cooper does not commit is dulness. He isinteresting. Of course there are some of Cooper's works that no onecares to read now. But he is to be judged by his best, not by hisworst. Balzac is something of a novelist himself, and has a right tobe heard. "If Cooper, " says Balzac in a passage quoted by every writerwho touches upon Cooper, "had succeeded in the painting of characterto the same extent that he did in the painting of the phenomena ofnature, he would have uttered the last word of our art. " This is nomean praise. Cooper is read because he is interesting. He shallcontinue to be read for another reason. He is wholesome and vigorous. The air we breathe is the air of the pine forest and the salt sea. Youth is forever attracted by the mystery and adventure of primitivelife. As America becomes more and more densely settled the imaginationwill turn back to the early times when the bear and the deer, thesettler and Indian were tracking the trail through the forest andalong the shore. For this reason Cooper is likely to remain an abidingforce in American literature. 

XLIX

JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY AND BISMARCK

John Lothrop Motley, the American historian, a writer who in his _TheRise of the Dutch Republic_ produced a history as fascinating as aromance and a work that was immediately in Europe translated intothree different languages, was, after graduation from Harvard, astudent at Goettingen. Here he studied German so well that in afteryears he was asked by the emperor of Austria whether he were not aGerman. Here too he became acquainted with Bismarck. 

That they were great friends is evident from letters by Bismarckhimself. "I never pass by old Logier's House, in theFriedrichstrasse--wrote Bismarck in 1863--without looking up at thewindows that used to be ornamented by a pair of red slippers sustainedon the wall by the feet of a gentleman sitting in the Yankee way, hishead below and out of sight. I then gratify my memory with remembranceof 'good old colony times when we were roguish chaps. '" And here isanother part of a letter which illustrates that even dignitaries liketo unbend and become like boys again. This letter was written by theminister of foreign affairs to the minister of the United States at thecourt of Vienna:

 Berlin, May 23d, 1864. 

 Jack my Dear, -- . .. What do you do that you never write a line to me? I am working from morn to night like a nigger, and you have nothing to do at all--you might as well tip me a line as well as looking at your feet tilted against the wall of God knows what a dreary color. I cannot entertain a regular correspondence; it happens to me that during five days I do not find a quarter of an hour for a walk; but you, lazy old chap, what keeps you from thinking of your old friends? When just going to bed in this moment my eye met with yours on your portrait, and I curtailed the sweet restorer, sleep, in order to remind you of Auld Lang Syne. Why do you never come to Berlin? It is not a quarter of an American's holiday from Vienna, and my wife and me should be so happy to see you once more in this sullen life. When can you come, and when will you? I swear that I will make out the time to look with you on old Logier's quarters, . .. And at Gerolt's, where they once would not allow you to put your slender legs upon a chair. Let politics be hanged and come to see me. I promise that the Union Jack shall wave over our house, and conversation and the best old hock shall pour damnation upon the rebels. Do not forget old friends, neither their wives, as mine wishes nearly as ardently as myself to see you, or at least to see as quickly as possible a word of your handwriting. 

 Sei gut und komm oder schreibe. Dein, V. BISMARCK. 

In a letter to Oliver Wendell Holmes in 1878, Bismarck in answer to aninquiry tells how the two became friends. 

"I met Motley at Goettingen in 1832, I am not sure if at the beginningof the Easter term or Michaelmas term. He kept company with Germanstudents, though more addicted to study than we members of thefighting clubs. Although not having mastered yet the German languagehe exercised a marked attraction by a conversation sparkling with wit, humor, and originality. In autumn of 1833, having both of us emigratedfrom Goettingen to Berlin for the prosecution of our studies, webecame fellow lodgers in the house No. 161 Friedrichstrasse. There welived in the closest intimacy, sharing meals and outdoor exercise. Motley by that time had arrived at talking fluently: he occupiedhimself not only in translating Goethe's poem, _Faust_, but tried hishand even in composing German verses. Enthusiastic admirer ofShakspere, Byron, Goethe, he used to spice his conversation abundantlywith quotations from these his favorite authors. A pertinaciousarguer, so much so that sometimes he watched my awakening in order tocontinue a discussion on some topic of science, poetry, or practicallife cut short by the chime of the small hours, he never lost his mildand amiable temper. .. . The most striking feature of his handsome anddelicate appearance was uncommonly large and beautiful eyes. He neverentered a drawing-room without exciting the curiosity and sympathy ofthe ladies. "

While the sheets of Motley's history were passing through the press in1856, he paid a visit to Bismarck at Frankfort:

"When I called, " says Motley, "Bismarck was at dinner, so I left mycard, and said I would come back in half an hour. As soon as my cardhad been carried to him (as I learned afterwards) he sent a servantafter me to the hotel, but I had gone another way. When I came back Iwas received with open arms. I can't express to you how cordially hereceived me. If I had been his brother, instead of an old friend, hecould not have shown more warmth and affectionate delight in seeingme. I find I like him better even than I thought I did, and you knowhow high an opinion I always expressed of his talents anddisposition. He is a man of very noble character, and of very greatpowers of mind. The prominent place which he now occupies as astatesman sought _him_. He did not seek it or any other office. Thestand which he took in the Assembly from conviction, on the occasionof the outbreak of 1848, marked him at once to all parties as one ofthe leading characters of Prussia. .. . 

"In the summer of 1851, he told me that the minister, Manteuffel, asked him one day abruptly, if he would accept the post of ambassadorat Frankfort, to which (although the proposition was as unexpected aone to him as if I should hear by the next mail that I had been chosengovernor of Massachusetts) he answered after a moment's deliberation, yes, without another word. The king, the same day, sent for him, andasked him if he would accept the place, to which he made the samebrief answer, 'Ja. ' His majesty expressed a little surprise that hemade no inquiries or conditions, when Bismarck replied that anythingwhich the king felt strong enough to propose to him, he felt strongenough to accept. I only write these details that you may have an ideaof the man. Strict integrity and courage of character, a high sense ofhonor, a firm religious belief, united with remarkable talents, makeup necessarily a combination which cannot be found any day in anycourt; and I have no doubt that he is destined to be prime minister, unless his obstinate truthfulness, which is apt to be astumbling-block for politicians, stands in his way. .. . 

"Well, he accepted the post and wrote to his wife next day, who waspreparing for a summer's residence in a small house they had taken onthe sea-coast, that he could not come because he was alreadyestablished in Frankfort as minister. The result, he said, was threedays of tears on her part. He had previously been leading the life ofa plain country squire with a moderate income, had never held anyposition in the government or in diplomacy, and had hardly ever beento court. "

L

THE YOUTH OF GEORGE TICKNOR

George Ticknor was born in 1791. His father, he says, fitted him forcollege. He never went to a regular school. President Wheelock, Professor Woodward, and others connected with Dartmouth College, whowere in the habit of making his father's house their home in the longwinter vacations, took much notice of him; and the professor, afterexamining him in Cicero _Orations_ and the Greek Testament, gave him acertificate of admission before he was ten years old. "Of course, " headds, "I knew very little, and the whole thing was a form, perhaps afarce. There was no thought of my going to college then, and I did notgo till I was fourteen, but I was twice examined at the college (whereI went with my father and mother every summer) for advanced standing, and was finally admitted as a junior, and went to reside there fromCommencement, August, 1805. " He learned very little at college. "Theinstructors generally were not as good teachers as my father had been, and I knew it. " He consequently took no great interest in study, although he liked reading Horace, and had mathematics enough to enjoycalculating the great eclipse of 1806, and making a projection of itwhich turned out nearly right. To supply the deficiency in classicalacquirements with which he left college, he was placed under Dr. JohnGardiner, of Trinity Church, who was reputed a good scholar, havingbeen bred in the mother country under Dr. Parr. 

"I prepared at home what he prescribed, and the rest of my timeoccupied myself according to my tastes. I read with him parts of Livy, the _Annals_ of Tacitus, the whole of Juvenal and Persius, the_Satires_ of Horace, and portions of other Latin classics which I donot remember. I wrote Latin prose and verse. In Greek I read somebooks of the _Odyssey_, I don't remember how many; the _Alcestis_; andtwo or three other plays of Euripides; the _Prometheus Vinctus_ ofÆschylus; portions of Herodotus, and parts of Thucydides, --of whichlast I only remember how I was tormented by the account of the plagueat Athens. This was the work of between two and three years. "

After a year's experience in law, he decides to give up his professionand goes to Europe in order to study at Goettingen. On reachingLiverpool his first introduction is to Roscoe, and then on his way toLondon he stops at Hatton to visit Dr. Parr, who astonished him not alittle by observing, "Sir, I would not think I had done my duty if Iwent to bed any night without praying for the success of NapoleonBonaparte. "

In London Mr. Ticknor formed a friendship with Lord Byron; two menmore unlike in every respect can hardly be conceived of, and it isamusing to think of Byron impressing his visitor as being "simple andunaffected, " or of his speaking "of his early follies withsincerity, " and of his own works "with modesty. " It is amusing, too, to hear that as Lady Byron is going out for a drive, "Lord Byron'smanner to her was affectionate; he followed her to the door, and shookhands with her, as if he were not to see her for a month. " Thefollowing curious anecdote shows that Byron was no less unpatriotic inhis views than Dr. Parr himself. Mr. Ticknor is calling upon him, andByron is praising Scott as the first man of his time, and saying ofGifford that no one could have a better disposition, when, --

"Sir James Bland Burgess, who had something to do in negotiating Jay'sTreaty, came suddenly into the room, and said abruptly, 'My lord, mylord, a great battle has been fought in the Low Countries, andBonaparte is entirely defeated. ' 'But is it true?' said Lord Byron, 'isit true?' 'Yes, my lord, it is certainly true; and an aid-de-camparrived in town last night, he has been in Downing Street this morning, and I have just seen him as he was going to Lady Wellington's. He sayshe thinks Bonaparte is in full retreat towards Paris. ' After a moment'spause, Lord Byron replied, 'I am sorry for it;' and then, after anotherslight pause, he added, 'I didn't know but I might live to see LordCastlereagh's head on a pole. But I suppose I sha'n't now. ' And thiswas the first impression produced on his imperious nature by the newsof the battle of Waterloo. "

But Byron is not Mr. Ticknor's only London friend, for we read of abreakfast with Sir Humphry Davy, a "genuine bookseller's dinner" withMurray, and a visit to the author of _Gertrude of Wyoming_. 

Goettingen, however, is the object of his journey, and at Goettingenhe remains for the next year and a half. If he does not learn to scornthe delights of society, he has at least the resolution to live thelaborious days of the earnest student. He studies five languages, andworks twelve hours in the twenty-four. Greek, German, theology, andnatural history seem chiefly to claim his attention, but he is alsobusy with French, Italian, and Latin, and manages at the same time tokeep up his English reading. He is much amused with the Germanprofessors, and describes them with no little humor. There isMichaelis, who asks one of his scholars for some silver shoe-buckles, in lieu of a fee. There is Schultze, who "looks as if he had fastedsix months on Greek prosody and the Pindaric meters. " There isBlumenbach, who has a sharp discussion at a dinner-table, and next daysends down three huge quartos all marked to show his authorities andjustify his statements. 

Here is another interesting anecdote given in Ticknor's _Memoirs_:

"When I was in Goettingen, in 1816, I saw Wolf, the most distinguishedGreek scholar of the time. He could also lecture extemporaneously inLatin. He was curious about this country, and questioned me about ourscholars and the amount of our scholarship. I told him what Icould, --amongst other things, of a fashionable, dashing preacher ofNew York having told me that he took great pleasure in reading thechoruses of Æschylus, and that he read them without a dictionary! Iwas walking with Wolf at the time, and, on hearing this, he stopped, squared round, and said, 'He told you that, did he?' 'Yes, ' Ianswered. 'Very well; the next time you hear him say it, do you tellhim he lies, and that I say so. '"

During a six weeks' vacation there is a pleasant tour through Germany, and at Weimar Mr. Ticknor makes the acquaintance of Goethe, who talkedabout Byron, and "his great knowledge of human nature. "

And now in the November of 1816, there comes an intimation thatHarvard College wishes to recall Mr. Ticknor to his old home, and givehim the professorship of French and Spanish literature. It was amatter of difficulty for him to make a final decision, and a yearpasses before he determined to accept the charge, and a year and ahalf more before he enters upon its duties. 

Meanwhile he leaves Goettingen, visits Paris, Geneva, and Rome, andthen goes on to Spain. .. . When in Spain, Mr. Ticknor is busy learningSpanish and collecting Spanish books, and here he lays the groundworkfor that special literary distinction for which he is now so widelyknown. --Adapted from the _Athenaeum_ and _Quarterly Review_. 

LI

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK

Fitz-Greene Halleck died at a ripe old age in 1867. On the evening ofFebruary 2d, 1869, Bryant delivered an address on the life andwritings of Halleck. The address was given before the New YorkHistorical Society and was printed the next day in the _New YorkEvening Post_. Here is an interesting extract from the address:

"When I look back upon Halleck's literary life I cannot help thinkingthat if his death had happened forty years earlier, his life wouldhave been regarded as a bright morning prematurely overcast. YetHalleck's literary career may be said to have ended then. All thatwill hand down his name to future years had already been produced. Whoshall say to what cause his subsequent literary inaction was owing? Itwas not the decline of his powers; his brilliant conversation showedthat it was not. Was it, then, indifference to fame? Was it because hehad put an humble estimate on what he had written, and thereforeresolved to write no more? Was it because he feared lest what he mightwrite would be unworthy of the reputation he had been so fortunate toacquire?

"I have my own way of accounting for his literary silence in thelatter half of his life. One of the resemblances which he bore toHorace consisted in the length of time for which he kept his poems byhim that he might give them the last and happiest touches. He had atenacious verbal memory, and having composed his poems withoutcommitting them to paper, he revised them in the same manner, murmuring them to himself in his solitary moments, recovering theenthusiasm with which they were first received, and in this stateheightening the beauty of the thought or of the expression. I rememberthat once in crossing Washington Park I saw Halleck before me andquickened my pace to overtake him. As I drew near I heard him crooningto himself what seemed to be lines of verse, and as he threw back hishands in walking I perceived that they quivered with the feeling ofthe passage he was reciting. I instantly checked my pace and fellback, out of reverence for the mood of inspiration which seemed to beupon him, and fearful lest I should intercept the birth of a poemdestined to be the delight of thousands of readers. 

"In this way I suppose Halleck to have attained the gracefulness ofhis diction, and the airy melody of his numbers. In this way I believehe wrought up his verses to that transparent clearness of expressionwhich causes the thought to be seen through them without anyinterposing dimness, so that the thought and the phrase seem one, andthe thought enters the mind like a beam of light. I suppose thatHalleck's time being taken up by the tasks of his vocation, henaturally lost by degrees the habit of composing in this manner, andthat he found it so necessary to the perfection of what he wrote thathe adopted no other in its place. 

"Whatever was the reason that Halleck ceased so early to write, let uscongratulate ourselves that he wrote at all. Great authors oftenoverlay and almost smother their own fame by the voluminousness oftheir writings. So great is their multitude, and so rich is theliterature of our language, that for frequent readings we are obligedto content ourselves with mere selections from the works of best andmost beloved of our poets, even those who have not written much. It isonly a few of their works that dwell and live in the general mind. Gray, for example, wrote little, and of that little one short poem, his _Elegy_, can be fairly said to survive in the public admiration, and that poem I have sometimes heard called the most popular in ourlanguage. "

LII

THE AUTHOR OF THANATOPSIS

Thanatopsis may be said to be the most remarkable poem written by anAmerican youth. "The unfailing wonder of it is, " writes an Americancritic in a magazine article, "that a boy of seventeen could havewritten it; not merely that he could have made verse of suchstructural beauty and dignity, but that the thoughts of which it iscompacted could have been a boy's thoughts. The poem seems to havebeen written while he was at his father's house in Cummington, in thesummer of 1811, before he had definitely begun the study of law. Fondas he had been of showing his earlier effusions to his father andothers, the consciousness of having done something different andgreater must have come upon him at this time, for it was only byaccident, six years after the writing of _Thanatopsis_, that hisfather chanced to find it and the poem now called _An Inscription Uponthe Entrance to a Wood_, among some papers in a desk the boy had usedwhile at home. Dr. Bryant read them with amazement and delight, hurried at once to the house of a neighbor, a lady of whose sympathyhe felt sure, thrust them into her hands, and, with the tears runningdown his cheeks, said, 'Read them; they are Cullen's. '

 [Illustration: WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT From a photograph from life]

"Now it had happened only a short time before, that Dr. Bryant hadbeen asked in Boston to urge his son to contribute to the newlyestablished _North American Review_, and had written him a letter onthe editor's behalf. Here was the opportunity of a proud father. Without telling his son of his discovery or his purpose, he left thepoems one day, together with some translations from _Horace_ by thesame hand, at the office of _The North American_. The little packagewas addressed to his editorial friend, Mr. Willard Phillips, of whomtradition tells us that as soon as he read the poems he betook himselfin hot haste to Cambridge to display his treasures to his associates, Richard H. Dana and Edward T. Channing. 'Ah, Phillips, ' said Dana, when he had heard the poems read, 'you have been imposed upon. No oneon this side of the Atlantic is capable of writing such verse. ' ButPhillips, believing Dr. Bryant to be responsible for it, declared thathe knew the writer, and that Dana could see him at once if he would goto the State House in Boston. Accordingly the young men posted intotown, and Dana, unconvinced after looking long and carefully at Dr. Bryant in his seat in the Senate, said, 'It is a good head, but I donot see _Thanatopsis_ in it. '"

Bryant is never thought of as a humorist, and his poetry is devoid ofplayfulness. But in this letter to his mother, in which he announceshis marriage with Frances Fairchild, we have evidence that Bryant hada strong sense of humor. 

 DEAR MOTHER: I hasten to send you the melancholy intelligence of what has lately happened to me. 

 Early on the evening of the eleventh day of the present month I was at a neighboring house in this village. Several people of both sexes were assembled in one of the apartments, and three or four others, with myself, were in another. At last came in a little elderly gentleman, pale, thin, with a solemn countenance, pleuritic voice, hooked nose, and hollow eyes. It was not long before we were summoned to attend in the apartment where he and the rest of the company were gathered. We went in and took our seats; the little elderly gentleman with the hooked nose prayed, and we all stood up. When he had finished most of us sat down. The gentleman with the hooked nose then muttered certain cabalistic expressions, which I was too much frightened to remember, but I recollect that at the conclusion I was given to understand that I was married to a young lady by the name of Frances Fairchild, whom I perceived standing by my side, and I hope in the course of few months to have the pleasure of introducing to you as your daughter-in-law, which is a matter of some interest to the poor girl, who has neither father or mother in the world. 

Next to _Thanatopsis_ the most widely-known and admired of Bryant'swork is _To a Waterfowl_. There are two very interesting storiespertaining to this much quoted poem, one relating to the origin of thepoem, the other recording its effect on two fastidious youngEnglishmen, Hartley Coleridge and Matthew Arnold. 

Bryant was a young man with no assurance as to what the future mighthave in store for him. He was journeying over the hills to Plainfieldto see whether there might possibly be an opening for a young lawyer. It was the 15th of December, 1816, and we can imagine that the gloomof the gathering twilight helped to deepen the youth's despondency. But before the glimmering light of evening had given place entirely tothe dark of night, the sky was transfigured with the bright rays ofthe setting sun. The New England sky was flooded for a moment withseas of chrysolite and opal. While young Bryant stopped to enjoy thebrilliant scene, a solitary bird made its way across the sky. Hewatched it until it was lost in the distant horizon, and then went onwith new courage as he thought the thoughts so beautifully expressedin the poem which he wrote after he reached the house where he was tostay for the night. 

The incident in regard to Matthew Arnold is related by Godwin in aletter to Bigelow:

"Once when the late Matthew Arnold, with his family, was visiting theever-hospitable country home of Mr. Charles Butler, I happened tospend an evening there. In the course of it Mr. Arnold took up avolume of Mr. Bryant's poems from the table and turning to me said, 'This is the American poet, _facile princeps_'; and after a pause, hecontinued: 'When I first heard of him, Hartley Coleridge (we were bothlads then) came into my father's house one afternoon considerablyexcited and exclaimed, 'Matt, do you want to hear the best short poemin the English language?' 'Faith, Hartley, I do, ' was my reply. Hethen read a poem _To a Waterfowl_ in his best manner. And he was agood reader. As soon as he had done he asked, 'What do you think ofthat?' 'I am not sure but you are right, Hartley, is it yourfather's?' was my reply. 'No, ' he rejoined, 'father has writtennothing like that. ' Some days after he might be heard muttering tohimself, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering but not lost. "

LIII

CURTIS AND HAWTHORNE AT THE BROOK FARM

The social experiment known as the Brook Farm enterprise is one of themost interesting episodes in American literature. Mrs. Ora G. Sedgwickis one of the many writers who have written about the place and itsinhabitants. She went there in June, 1841, and lived for some time atthe Hive, the principal community edifice. She was then but a girl ofsixteen, but the impressions on her youthful mind were strong enoughto enable her recently to describe her life there. As to Curtis shehas this to say:

"The arrival of George William Curtis, then a youth of eighteen, andhis brother Burrill, two years his senior, was a noteworthy event inthe annals of Brook Farm, at least in the estimation of the youngermembers. I shall never forget the flutter of excitement caused by Mr. Ripley's announcing their expected coming in these words: 'Now we'regoing to have two young Greek gods among us. ' . .. On a bright morningin May, 1842, soon after Mr. Ripley's announcement, as I was comingdown from the Eyrie to the Hive, I saw Charles A. Dana with twostrange young men approaching my 'magic gate' from the direction ofthe Hive. Arriving at the gate before me, Mr. Dana threw it open withthe flourish peculiar to his manner, and stood holding it back. Hiscompanions stood beside him, and all three waited for me to passthrough. I saw at a glance that these must be 'the two young Greekgods. ' They stood disclosed, not like Virgil's Venus, by their step, but by their beauty and bearing. Burrill Curtis was at that time themore beautiful. He had a Greek face, of great purity of expression, and curling hair. George too was very handsome--not so remarkably asin later life, but already with a man's virile expression. 

"About George William Curtis there was a peculiar personal eleganceand an air of great deference in listening to one whom he admired orlooked up to. There was a certain remoteness (at times almostamounting to indifference) about him, but he was always courteous. Hisfriends were all older than himself, and he appeared much older inmanners and conversation than he was in years; more like a man oftwenty-five than a youth of eighteen. "

Mrs. Sedgwick also gives us a charming glimpse at the great Americannovelist, Hawthorne:

"I do not recollect Hawthorne's talking much at the table. Indeed, hewas a very taciturn man. One day, tired of seeing him sittingimmovable on the sofa in the hall, as I was learning some verses torecite at the evening class for recitation formed by Charles A. Dana, I daringly took my book, pushed it into his hands, and said, 'Will youhear my poetry, Mr. Hawthorne?' He gave me a sidelong glance from hisvery shy eyes, took the book, and most kindly heard me. After that hewas on the sofa every week to hear me recite. 

"One evening he was alone in the hall, sitting on a chair at thefarther end, when my room mate, Ellen Slade, and myself were goingupstairs. She whispered to me, 'Let's throw the sofa pillows at Mr. Hawthorne. ' Reaching over the bannisters, we each took a cushion andthrew it. Quick as a flash he put out his hand, seized a broom thatwas hanging near him, warded off our cushions, and threw them backwith sure aim. As fast as we could throw them at him he returned themwith effect, hitting us every time, while we could hit only the broom. He must have been very quick in his movements. Through it all not aword was spoken. We laughed and laughed, and his eyes shone andtwinkled like stars. Wonderful eyes they were, and when anything wittywas said I always looked quickly at Mr. Hawthorne; for his dark eyeslighted up as if flames were suddenly kindled behind them, and thenthe smile came down to his lips and over his grave face. 

"My memories of Mr. Hawthorne are among the pleasantest of my BrookFarm recollections. His manners to children were charming and kind. Isaw him one day walking, as was his custom, with his hands behind hisback, head bent forward, the two little Bancrofts and other childrenfollowing him with pleased faces, and stooping every now and then withbroad smiles, after which they would rise and run on again behind him. Puzzled at these maneuvers, I watched closely, and found thatalthough he hardly moved a muscle except to walk, yet from time totime he dropped a penny, for which the children scrambled. "

LIV

HAWTHORNE AND THE SCARLET LETTER

On June 8, 1849, Hawthorne walked out of the Salem Custom House--a manwithout a job. Taylor's Whig administration had come in, so ourDemocratic friend, Mr. Hawthorne, walked out. The job he left was notin our modern eyes a very lucrative one, it was worth $1, 200 a yearand Hawthorne had had it for three years. But he went out "mad, " forhe knew he had not meddled in politics and he thought that as anauthor--even if he was the "most obscure man of letters inAmerica"--he was entitled to some consideration. 

And then there were the wife and children! As he walked home to tellthem the doleful news, he was much depressed by thoughts of them. Hehad paid his old debts; but he had saved nothing. He seemed to lackmoney, friends, and influence. He had written to a friend inBoston, --"I shall not stand upon my dignity; that must take care ofitself. .. . Do not think anything too humble to be mentioned to me. Theintelligence has just reached me, and Sophia has not yet heard it. Shewill bear it like a woman, --that is to say better than a man. " What anoble tribute to woman's fortitude! Hawthorne's belief in thesustaining love of his wife reminds us of a tradition which says thathe never read a letter from his wife without first washing his hands. To him the act was sacred, and like a priest of old before handlingthe symbols of love he performed the rites of purification. 

His son tells us how the wife met the news with which he greeted heron his arrival at home, "that he had left his head behind. " Sheexclaimed, "Oh, then you can write your book!" And when he with theprudence of a practical man wanted to know where the bread and ricewere to come from while he was writing the book, she like all goodwives--of olden times, at least--brought forth a "pile of gold" whichshe had saved from the household weekly expenses. When the pile ofgold had been subjected to mathematical accuracy it dwindled to $150, but it was enough to tide over immediate wants. 

It was in the early winter that James T. Fields, the publisher whoplays such a prominent part in the early history of Americanliterature, descended upon the quiet Salem household like the"godmother in a fairy story. " Fields has told the story of his visit:"I found him alone in a chamber over the sitting-room of the dwelling;and as the day was cold, he was hovering near a stove. We fell intotalk about his future prospects, and he was, as I feared I should findhim, in a very desponding mood. 'Now, ' said I, 'is the time for you topublish, for I know during these years in Salem you must have gotsomething ready for the press. ' 'Nonsense, ' said he, 'what heart had Ito write anything, when my publishers have been so many years tryingto sell a small edition of the _Twice-told Tales_. ' I still pressedupon him the good chances he would have now with something new. 'Whowould risk publishing a book for me, the most unpopular writer inAmerica?' 'I would, ' said I, 'and would start with an edition of 2, 000copies of anything you would write. ' 'What madness!' he exclaimed. 'Your friendship for me gets the better of your judgment. ' 'No, no!'he continued, 'I have no money to indemnify a publisher's losses on myaccount. ' I looked at my watch, and found that the train would be soonstarting for Boston, and I knew that there was not much time to losein trying to discover what had been his literary work during theselast few years in Salem. I remember that I pressed him to reveal to mewhat he had been writing. He shook his head and gave me to understandthat he had produced nothing. At that moment I caught sight of abureau or set of drawers near where we were sitting; and immediatelyit occurred to me that hidden in that article of furniture was a storyor stories by the author of _Twice-told Tales_; and I became sopositive of it that I charged him vehemently with the fact. He seemedsurprised, I thought, but shook his head again; and I rose to take myleave, begging him not to come into the cold entry, saying I wouldcome back and see him again in a few days. I was hurrying down thestairs when he called after me from the chamber, asking me to stop amoment. Then quickly stepping into the entry with a roll of MS. In hishands, he said: 'How in heaven's name did you know this thing wasthere? As you found me out, take what was written, and tell me, afteryou get home and have time to read it, if it is good for anything. Itis either very good or very bad--I don't know which!' On my way toBoston I read the germ of _The Scarlet Letter_. "

Hawthorne's original plan was to write a number of stories, of whichthis particular one was to be the longest. He was going to call hisbook of tales, _Old-Time Legends: together with Sketches, Experimentaland Ideal_, --a title which Woodberry calls "ghostly with thetranscendental nonage of his genius. " Fields urged that the tale bemade longer and fuller and that it be published by itself. So theoriginal plan was changed, as was also the title. This was wise, forthe cumbersome original title would have killed any book, but thepresent title is nothing short of a stroke of genius. 

About this time Hawthorne's friends, under the leading of Hillard, sent a kind letter and a considerable sum of money. Hawthornereplied, --"I read your letter in the vestibule of the Post Office; andit drew--what my troubles never have--the water to my eyes; so that Iwas glad of the sharply-cold west wind that blew into them as I camehomeward, and gave them an excuse for being red and bleared. " Aftersaying it was sweet to be remembered, but bitter to need their aid, heconcludes, --"The money, dear Hillard, will smooth my path for a longtime to come. The only way in which a man can retain his self-respect, while availing himself of the generosity of his friends, is by makingit an incitement to his utmost exertion, so that he may not need theirhelp again. I shall look upon it so--nor will shun any drudgery thatmy hand shall find to do, if thereby I may win bread. "

Four days after this letter was written, on February 3, 1850, hefinished _The Scarlet Letter_. He writes to a friend saying he readthe last scene to his wife, or rather tried to read it, "for my voiceswelled and heaved, as if I were tossed up and down on an ocean as itsubsides after a storm. " Mrs. Hawthorne told a friend that her husbandseemed depressed all during that winter. "There was a knot in hisforehead all the time, " said his wife. One day he told her he had astory that he wished to read to her. He read part of the work oneevening. The next evening he continued. His wife followed the storywith intense interest. Her excitement arose until when he was readingnear the end of the book, where Arthur and Hester and the child meetin the forest, Mrs. Hawthorne sank from her low stool to the floor andsaid she could endure no more. Hawthorne stopped and said inwonder, --"Do you really feel it so much? Then there must be somethingin it. "

Mrs. Hawthorne relates that on the day after the MS. Was delivered toFields, this publisher returned and when admitted to the house caughtup her boy in his arms and said, --"You splendid little fellow, do youknow what a father you have?" Then he ran upstairs to talk toHawthorne, calling to her as he went that he had sat up all night toread the story. Soon her husband came down and walked about the roomwith a new light in his eyes. 

Early in April the book was issued in an edition of 5, 000 copies; thiswas soon exhausted, and Hawthorne was well started on that career ofliterary fame which led Mr. Hamilton W. Mabie, a hundred years afterthe birth of Hawthorne, to call him "the foremost literary artist ofAmerica. "

_The Scarlet Letter_, as Hawthorne himself tells us, is a story of"human frailty and sorrow. " It is the story of one who has broodedlong and faithfully upon the problem of evil. In it we read that manis the master of his fate. The great difference between ancient andmodern literature is this: the old dramatists seem to believe thatsomewhere there is a power above and beyond the control of man, ablind, unreasoning force that seems to play with man as the footballof chance. Whatever may be done by man will prove unavailing if Fateor Destiny has decreed otherwise. Out of such a philosophy of lifecomes the story of OEdipus. The modern conception is that expressed byShakspere:

 The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 

Still later Henley in his one great poem has expressed the thoughtwith vigor, --

 Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods there be For my unconquerable soul!

With unfaltering aim Hawthorne shows that each character works out itsown destiny. That man is helpless, the sport of gods, the football ofFate, is disproved by the patient transformation in the character ofHester. 

Some one has well characterized _The Scarlet Letter_ as "a drama ofthe spirit. " It is a story such as only one who had brooded deeply onthe problem of evil could write. Hawthorne was a "solitary brooderupon life. " Every one who knew him testified to this impression. WhenWilliam Dean Howells, a young man from Ohio, knocked at the door ofthe Wayside Cottage, a letter of introduction in his hand, and afeeling of hero-worship in his heart, he was ushered into the presenceof the great romancer, who advanced "carrying his head with a heavyforward droop" and with pondering pace. His look was "somber andbrooding--the look of a man who had dealt faithfully and thereforesorrowfully with that problem of evil which forever attracted andforever evaded Hawthorne. "

Hawthorne impressed all who met him with his reserve and shyness. Manystories are told to illustrate this quality. Hawthorne was once avisitor at a club where a number of literary men had gathered. Thetaciturnity of Hawthorne was more impressive than the loquacity of thewitty Holmes. After Hawthorne had left Emerson said, "Hawthorne rideshis dark horse well. " George William Curtis relates this anecdote:

". .. I recall the silent and preternatural vigor with which, on oneoccasion, he wielded his paddle to counteract the bad rowing of afriend who conscientiously considered it his duty to do something andnot let Hawthorne work alone, but who with every stroke neutralizedall Hawthorne's efforts. I suppose he would have struggled until hefell senseless rather than to ask his friend to desist. His principleseemed to be, if a man cannot understand without talking to him, itis quite useless to talk, because it is immaterial whether such a manunderstands or not. "

Hawthorne's father was a man of the sea, a man of few words, and it issometimes said that the romancer inherited his shy and reserveddisposition from his father. But his mother was not behind the fatherin reserve. After her husband's death she shut herself up inHindoo-like seclusion and lived the life of a hermit for more thanforty years. 

Hawthorne gives us an interesting account of his boyhood in anautobiographical note to his friend Stoddard. "When I was eight ornine years old, my mother, with her three children, took up herresidence on the banks of the Sebago Lake, in Maine, where the familyowned a large tract of land; and here I ran quite wild . .. Fishing allday long, or shooting with an old fowling-piece; but reading a gooddeal too, on the rainy days, especially in _Shakspere_ and _ThePilgrim's Progress_. "

More pertinent as to his habits of loneliness is the following accountof how he lived for nine or ten years after his graduation fromBowdoin. "I had always, " he writes, "a natural tendency (it appears tohave been on the paternal side) toward seclusion; and this I nowindulged to the utmost, so that, for months together, I scarcely heldhuman intercourse outside of my own family, seldom going out except attwilight, or only to take the nearest way to the most convenientsolitude, which was oftenest the seashore. .. . Having spent so much ofmy boyhood and youth from my native place, I had very fewacquaintances in Salem, and during the nine or ten years that I spentthere, in this solitary way, I doubt whether so much as twenty peoplein the town were aware of my existence. "

Such was the solitariness of the youthful Hawthorne. Is it surprisingthat in the fiction of the mature man there should be a pervadingsense of remoteness, of silences that fascinate, of mysteries thatcharm?

LV

MAX MÜLLER'S RECOLLECTIONS OF EMERSON, LOWELL, AND HOLMES

Living at Oxford, writes Max Müller, I have had the good fortune ofreceiving visits from Emerson, Dr. Wendell Holmes, and Lowell, tospeak of the brightest stars only. Each of them stayed at our housefor several days, so that I could take them in at leisure, whileothers had to be taken at one gulp, often between one train and thenext. Oxford has a great attraction for all Americans, and it is apleasure to see how completely they feel at home in the memories ofthe place. The days when Emerson, Wendell Holmes, and Lowell werestaying with us, the breakfasts and luncheons, the teas and dinners, and the delightful walks through college halls, chapels and gardensare possessions forever. .. . 

I do not wonder that philosophers by profession had nothing to say tohis (Emerson's) essays because they did not seem to advance theirfavorite inquiries beyond the point they had reached before. But therewere many people, particularly in America, to whom these rhapsodiesdid more good than any learned disquisitions or carefully arrangedsermons. There is in them what attracts us so much in the ancients, freshness, directness, self-confidence, unswerving loyalty to truth, as far as they could see it. He had no one to fear, no one to please. Socrates or Plato, if suddenly brought to life in America, might havespoken like Emerson, and the effect produced by Emerson was certainlylike that produced by Socrates in olden times. 

What Emerson's personal charm must have been in earlier life we canonly conjecture from the rapturous praises bestowed on him by hisfriends, even during his lifetime. .. . And his influence was notconfined to the American mind. I have watched it growing in England. Ican still remember the time when even experienced judges spoke of hisessays as mere declamations, as poetical rhapsodies, as poorimitations of Carlyle. Then gradually one man after another foundsomething in Emerson which was not to be found in Carlyle, particularly his loving heart, his tolerant spirit, his comprehensivesympathy with all that was or was meant to be good and true, eventhough to his own mind it was neither the one nor the other. .. . 

Another eminent American who often honored my quiet home at Oxford wasJames Russell Lowell, for a long time United States minister inEngland. He was a professor and at the same time a politician and aman of the world. Few essays are so brimful of interesting facts andoriginal reflections as his essays entitled _Among my Books_. 

Lowell's conversation was inexhaustible, his information astonishing. Pleasant as he was, even as an antagonist, he would occasionally losehis temper and use very emphatic language. I was once sitting next tohim when I heard him stagger his neighbor, a young lady, by burstingout with, "But, madam, I do not accept your major premise!" Poorthing, she evidently was not accustomed to such language, and notacquainted with that terrible term. She collapsed, evidently quite ata loss as to what gift on her part Mr. Lowell declined to accept. 

Sometimes even the most harmless remark about America would call forthvery sharp replies from him. Everybody knows that the salaries paid byAmerica to her diplomatic staff are insufficient, and no one knew itbetter than he himself. But when the remark was made in his presencethat the United States treated their diplomatic representativesstingily, he fired up, and discoursed most eloquently on theadvantages of high thoughts and humble living. .. . 

I lost the pleasure of shaking hands with Longfellow during his stayin England. Though I have been more of a fixture at Oxford than mostprofessors, I was away during the vacation when he paid his visit toour university, and thus lost seeing a poet to whom I felt stronglyattracted, not only by the general spirit of his poetry, which wassteeped in German thought, but as the translator of several of myfather's poems. 

I was more fortunate with Dr. Wendell Holmes. His arrival in Englandhad been proclaimed beforehand, and one naturally remained at home inorder to be allowed to receive him. His hundred days in England wereone uninterrupted triumphal progress. When he arrived at Liverpool hefound about three hundred invitations waiting for him. Though he wasaccompanied by a most active and efficient daughter, he had at once toengage a secretary to answer this deluge of letters. And though hewas past eighty, he never spared himself, and was always ready to seeand to be seen. He was not only an old, but a ripe and mellow man. There was no subject on which one could touch which was not familiarto the autocrat of the breakfast table. His thoughts and his wordswere ready, and one felt that it was not for the first time that thesubject had been carefully thought out and talked out by him. That heshould have been able to stand all the fatigue of the journey and theconstant claims on his ready wit seemed to me marvelous. I had thepleasure of showing him the old buildings of Oxford. He seemed to knowthem all, and had something to ask and say about every one. When wecame to Magdalen College, he wanted to see and to measure the elms. Hewas very proud of some elms in America, and he had actually broughtsome string with which he had measured the largest tree he knew in hisown country. He proceeded to measure one of our finest elms inMagdalen College, and when he found that it was larger than hisAmerican giant, he stood before it admiring it, without a single wordof envy or disappointment. 

I had, however, a great fright while he was staying at our house. Hehad evidently done too much, and after our first dinner party he hadfeverish shivering fits, and the doctor whom I sent for declared atonce that he must keep perfectly quiet in bed, and attend no moreparties of any kind. This was a great disappointment to myself and toa great many of my friends. But at his time of life the doctor'swarning could not be disregarded, and I had, at all events, thesatisfaction of sending him off to Cambridge safe and sound. I hadhim several days quite to myself, and there were few subjects which wedid not discuss. We mostly agreed, but even where we did not, it was areal pleasure to differ from him. We discussed the greatest and thesmallest questions, and on every one he had some wise and tellingremarks to pour out. I remember one conversation while we were sittingat an old wainscoted room at All Souls', ornamented with the arms offormer fellows. It had been at first the library of the college, thenone of the fellows' rooms, and lastly a lecture room. We were deep inthe old question of the true relation between the divine and human inman, and here again, as on all other questions, everything seemed tobe clear and evident to his mind. Perhaps I ought not to repeat whathe said to me when we parted: "I have had much talk with people inEngland; with you I have had a real conversation. " We understood eachother and wondered how it was that men so often misunderstood oneanother. I told him that it was the badness of our language, hethought it was the badness of our tempers. Perhaps we were both right. With him again good-by was good-by for life, and at such moments onewonders indeed how kindred souls became separated, and one feelsstartled and repelled at the thought that, such as they were on earth, they can never meet again. And yet there is continuity in the world, there is no flaw, no break anywhere, and what has been will surely beagain, though how it will be we cannot know, and if only we trust inthe wisdom that pervades the whole universe, we need not know. 

LVI

HOWELLS CALLS ON EMERSON, AND DESCRIBES LONGFELLOW

In 1860 William Dean Howells, now one of the foremost literaryinfluences in the English-speaking world, was a young man writing forthe _Ohio State Journal_ of Columbus. Several of his poems had beenkindly received and published by the _Atlantic Monthly_, so that theyoung lady from New England who screamed with surprise at seeing the_Atlantic_ on a western table and cried, "Why, have you got the_Atlantic Monthly out here_?" could be met with, "There are severalcontributors to the _Atlantic_ in Columbus. " The several were Howellsand J. J. Piatt. But to be an accepted contributor to the _Atlantic_was not enough. Howells must see the literary celebrities of NewEngland. Emerson and Bayard Taylor he had seen and heard in Columbus, but Longfellow, Hawthorne, Lowell, Holmes, and Whittier were theliterary saints at whose shrine he wished to burn the sacred incenseof his adoring soul. 

From Hawthorne he received a card introducing him to Emerson. Emersonwas then about sixty, although nothing about him suggested an old man. After some conversation on general topics, Emerson began to talk ofHawthorne, praising Hawthorne's fine personal qualities. "But hislast book, " he added, reflectively, "is mere mush. " This criticismrelated to the _Marble Faun_. Of course, such a comment shockedHowells, whose sense of literary values was much keener thanEmerson's. "Emerson had, in fact, " writes Howells, "a defective senseas to specific pieces of literature; he praised extravagantly, and inthe wrong place, especially among the new things, and he failed to seethe worth of much that was fine and precious beside the line of hisfancy. "

Then Emerson made some inquiry about a Michigan young man who had beensending some of his poetry to Emerson. Howells was embarrassed to beobliged to say that he knew nothing of the Michigan poet. LaterEmerson asked whether he had become acquainted with the poems of Mr. William Henry Channing. Howells replied that he knew them only throughthe criticism of Poe. 

"Whose criticisms?" asked Emerson. 

"Poe's, " replied Howells. 

"Oh, " Emerson cried after a thoughtful moment, "you mean _the jingleman_!"

This was a moment of confusion and embarrassment for Howells. Had thevituperative pen of Poe ever thrown off more stinging criticism thanthat? "_The jingle man!_"

Emerson turned the conversation to Howells himself and asked him whathe had written for the _Atlantic_. Howells replied, and Emerson tookdown the bound volumes and carefully affixed Howells' initials to thepoems. "He followed me to the door, still speaking of poetry, and ashe took a kindly enough leave of me, he said one might very well givea pleasant hour to it now and then. " This was a shock to Howells. "Apleasant hour!" Howells was intending to consecrate all time andeternity to it, and here is the Sage of Concord coolly speaking ofpoetry as though it were some trifling diversion, like billiards orwhist. 

Later in life when Howells resided in Cambridge he had abundantopportunity to become acquainted with Longfellow, whom in _LiteraryFriends and Acquaintance_ he calls the "White Mr. Longfellow. "

"He was the most perfectly modest man I ever saw, ever imagined, buthe had a gentle dignity which I do not believe any one, the coarsest, the obtusest, could trespass upon. In the years when I began to knowhim, his long hair and the beautiful beard which mixed with it were ofiron-gray, which I saw blanch to a perfect silver, while that pearlytone of his complexion, which Appleton so admired, lost itself in thewanness of age and pain. When he walked, he had a kind of spring inhis gait, as if now and again a buoyant thought lifted him from theground. It was fine to meet him coming down a Cambridge street; youfelt that the encounter made you a part of literary history, and setyou apart with him for the moment from the poor and mean. When heappeared in Harvard Square, he beatified if not beautified the ugliestand vulgarest looking spot on the planet outside of New York. Youcould meet him sometimes at the market, if you were of the sameprovision-man as he, for Longfellow remained as constant to histradespeople as to any other friends. He rather liked to bring hisproofs back to the printer himself, and we often found ourselvestogether at the University Press, where _The Atlantic Monthly_ used tobe printed. But outside of his own house Longfellow seemed to want afit atmosphere, and I love best to think of him in his study, where hewrought at his lovely art with a serenity expressed in his smooth, regular, and scrupulously perfect handwriting. It was quite vertical, and rounded, with a slope neither to the right nor left, and at thetime I knew him first, he was fond of using a soft pencil on printingpaper, though commonly he wrote with a quill. Each letter was distinctin shape, and between the verses was always the exact space of half aninch. I have a good many of his poems written in this fashion, butwhether they were the first drafts or not I cannot say; very likelynot. Towards the last he no longer sent the poems to the magazines inhis own hand, but they were always signed in autograph. 

"I once asked him if he were not a great deal interrupted, and hesaid, with a faint sigh, Not more than was good for him, he fancied;if it were not for the interruptions, he might overwork. He was not afriend to stated exercise, I believe, nor fond of walking, as Lowellwas; he had not, indeed, the childish associations of the younger poetwith the Cambridge neighborhoods; and I never saw him walking forpleasure except on the east veranda of his house, though I was told heloved walking in his youth. In this and in some other thingsLongfellow was more European than American, more Latin than Saxon. Heonce said quaintly that one got a great deal of exercise in putting onand off one's overcoat and overshoes. .. . 

"He was patient, as I said of all things, and gentle beyond all meregentlemanliness. But it would have been a great mistake to mistake hismildness for softness. It was most manly and firm, and of course, itwas braced with the New England conscience he was born to. If he didnot find it well to assert himself, he was prompt in behalf of hisfriends, and one of the fine things told of him was his resenting somethings said of Sumner at a dinner in Boston during the old pro-slaverytimes; he said to the gentlemen present that Sumner was his friend, and he must leave their company if they continued to assail him. 

"But he spoke almost as rarely of his friends as of himself. He likedthe large, impersonal topics which could be dealt with, on their humanside, and involved characters rather than individuals. This was ratherstrange in Cambridge, where we were apt to take our instances from ourenvironments. It was not the only thing he was strange in there; hewas not to that manner born; he lacked the final intimacies which cancome only of birth and lifelong association, and which make the men ofthe Boston breed seem exclusive when they least feel so; he wasLongfellow to the friends who were James, and Charles, and Wendell toone another. He and Hawthorne were classmates at college, but I neverheard him mention Hawthorne; I never heard him mention Whittier orEmerson. I think his reticence about his contemporaries was largelydue to his reluctance from criticism: he was the finest artist ofthem all, and if he praised he must have praised with the reservationsof an honest man. Of younger writers he was willing enough to speak. No new contributor made his mark in the magazine unnoted by him, andsometimes I showed him verse in manuscript which gave me peculiarpleasure. I remember his liking for the first piece that Mr. MauriceThompson sent me, and how he tasted the fresh flavor of it and inhaledits wild new fragrance. "

LVII

LONGFELLOW, THE UNIVERSAL POET

We have passed the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Longfellow, and he still remains the favorite American poet. Not that Longfellowis one of the great world poets; Longfellow himself would have beenoffended with that eulogistic extravagance which would place him amongthe few immortals. He is not a Homer, nor a Dante, nor a Shakspere. No, he is not even a Wordsworth in philosophic insight into nature, nor a Shelley in power to snatch the soul into the starry empyrean, nor a Tennyson in variety and passion, nor a Milton in grandeur ofpoetic expression. He is--only Longfellow. But that means he has hisown peculiar charm. It is idle to detract from the fame of one manbecause he is not some one else. Roast beef may be more nutritiousthan strawberries, but that is no criticism upon the flavor of thestrawberry. Longfellow is not Milton, but then neither is MiltonLongfellow:

 If I cannot carry forests on my back Neither can you crack a nut. 

Of late years the critics have been finding fault with Longfellow. They have said that really Longfellow is no poet. Frederic Harrisoncalls Evangeline "goody, goody dribble!" and Quiller-Couch in hisanthology gives three pages to Longfellow and seven to Wilfred ScawenBlunt--but who is Blunt? When I was in Berlin I found in a Germanhistory of English and American Literature one-half a page devoted toLongfellow and ten pages to Poe. Perhaps some of this criticism is butthe natural reaction following the extreme praise that ensued afterthe death of Longfellow in 1882. 

 [Illustration: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW From a wood engraving of a life photograph]

But Longfellow is surviving all derogatory criticism. He is still thepoet with the universal appeal. It is altogether probable that he ismore widely read to-day than any other American poet. Even foreignersstill express their affection for this poet of the domesticaffections. In 1907 Sir Henry Mortimer Durand, the English Ambassadorto the United States, made an address in which he made gracefulacknowledgement of his debt to this American poet:

"I owe much of the pleasure of my life to American writers of everyshade of thought. .. . But I owe to one American writer much more thanpleasure. Tastes differ and fashions change, and I am told that thepoetry of Longfellow is not read as it used to be. Men in my owncountry have asked me whether the rivers of Damascus were not betterthan all the waters of Israel, whether Shakspere, and Milton, andShelley, and Keats were not enough for me, that I need go toLongfellow. And Americans have seemed surprised that I did not speakrather of Lowell and Bryant and others. Far be it from me to say aword against any of them. I have loved them all from my youth up, every one of them in his own way, and Shakspere as the master andcompendium of them all. No one, I suppose, would place Longfellow as apoet quite on the same level with some of them. But the fact remainsthat, for one reason or another, perhaps in part from earlyassociations, Longfellow has always spoken to my heart. Many a time, in lands far away from the land he loved so well, I have sought forsympathy in happiness and in sorrow--

 Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time--

but from that pure and gentle and untroubled spirit. "

Professor E. A. Grosvenor, of Amherst, years ago published an articleon Longfellow that was widely copied. It is an interesting account ofa conversation in 1879 on board the Messageries steamer _Donai_, boundfrom Constantinople to Marseilles. On board many nationalities wererepresented. The story is a fine illustration of the wide-spreadpopularity of the American poet. 

"One evening, as we were quitting the Straits of Bonifacio, some oneremarked at dinner that, though Victor Hugo was born in Paris, theearliest impressions of his life were received in Corsica, close towhich we were passing. Ten or twelve of us lingered after the meal wasfinished to talk of the great French poet. One of the party spoke ofhim as embodying, more than any other writer, the humanistictendencies of the nineteenth century and as the exponent of what isbest in humanity. 

"We had been talking in French, when the Russian lady exclaimed inEnglish to the gentleman who had last spoken, 'How can you, anAmerican, give to him the place that is occupied by your ownLongfellow? Longfellow is the universal poet. He is better known, too, among foreigners than any one except their own poets! Then shecommenced repeating in rich, mellow tones:

 I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose over the city Behind the dark church tower. 

I recall how her voice trembled over the words:

 And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. 

and how it swelled out in the concluding lines:

 As the symbol of love in Heaven, And its wavering image here. 

It was dramatic and never to be forgotten. Then she added, 'I long tovisit Boston that I may stand on the Bridge. '

"In the company was an English captain returning from the Zulu war. Hewas the son of that member of Parliament' who had been the chiefsupporter of the claimant in the famous Tichborne case, and who hadpoured out his money like water in behalf of the man whom heconsidered cruelly wronged. The captain was a typical British soldier, with every characteristic of his class. Joining our steamer at Genoa, he had so far talked only of the Zulus and, with bitter indignation, of the manner in which the Prince Imperial had been deserted byBritish soldiers to be slain by savages. As soon as the Russian ladyhad concluded he said: 'I can give you something better than that, 'and began in a voice like a trumpet:

 Tell me not in mournful numbers Life is but an empty dream. 

His recitation of the entire poem was marked by the common Englishupheaval and down-letting of the voice in each line; but it wasevident that he loved what he was repeating. 

"Then a tall, lank, gray-haired Scotchman, who knew no French, who hadhardly mingled with the other passengers, and who seemed alwayscommuning with himself, suddenly commenced:

 There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there. 

He repeated only a few stanzas, but could apparently have given thewhole poem, had he wished. 

"For myself, I know that my contribution was _My Lost Youth_, beginning

 Often I think of the beautiful town, That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town And my youth comes back to me. 

Never did the distance from an early home seem so great to one, NewEngland born, as in that strange company, gathered from many lands, each with words upon the lip which the American had first heard inchildhood. 

"A handsome, olive-cheeked young man, a Greek from Manchester, educated and living in England, said, 'How do you like this?' Then hebegan to sing:

 Stars of the summer night, Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

So he rendered the whole of that exquisite serenade--dear to Americancollege students--with a freedom and a fire which hinted that he hadsung it at least once before on some more appropriate occasion. Perhaps to some dark-eyed maiden of that elegant Greek colony ofManchester it had come as a revelation, and perhaps she had firstheard it sung in front of her father's mansion and had looked down, appreciative but unseen, from above. 

"The captain of the _Donai_ was not her regular commander, but anofficer of the national French navy, who was in charge only for a fewvoyages. A thorough Frenchman, no one would have accused him ofknowing a word of any tongue, save his own. Versatile, overflowingwith wit and _bons mots_, it must have wearied him to be silent solong. To our astonishment, in accents so Gallic that one discernedwith difficulty that he was attempting English, he intoned:

 Zee seds of neet fair valeeng fast, Ven t'rough an Alpeen veelage past A yout, who bore meed snow and eece A bannair veed dees strange deveece Excelsiorr!

"'_Eh, voila_, ' he exclaimed with satisfaction, '_J'ai appris cela al'école. C'est tout l'anglais que je sais. _'

"'_Mais, commandant_, ' said the Russian lady, '_ce n'est pas l'anglaisdu tout ce que vous venez de dire là. _'

"'_Ah, oui, madame, ça vient de votre Longfellow. _'

"None of the other passengers contributed, but already sixnationalities had spoken--Scotch, Russian, Greek, French, English, andAmerican. As we arose from the table and went up on deck to watch thelights glimmering in Napoleon's birthplace, Ajaccio, the Russian ladysaid: 'Do you suppose there is any other poet of any country, livingor dead, from whom so many of us could have quoted? Not one. Not evenShakspere or Victor Hugo or Homer. '"

LVIII

HENRY DAVID THOREAU

During his lifetime Thoreau published but two books, --_Walden_, andthe _Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers_, --and these had butlimited sale while the author was living. Over seven hundred copies ofthe _Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers_ were returned, toThoreau by his publisher. Thoreau must have had a helpful sense ofhumor, for after lugging the burden upstairs he complacentlyremarks, --"I have now a library of nearly nine hundred volumes, overseven hundred of which I wrote myself. " In recent times a costlyedition of all Thoreau's writings has been published. He is one of therare spirits whose fame increases with the years. But of all hisvoluminous writings _Walden_, so it seems to me, is the most readable, the freshest, the most stimulating. Higginson says that it is, perhaps, the only book yet written in America that can bear an annualreading. 

_Walden_ is a record of Thoreau's sojourn for about two years in thewoods by Walden Pond. He went about two miles from his mother's door, built a little house or hut, and there lived, reading his favoritebooks, philosophizing, studying nature, and to a great extentavoiding society. Some people have condemned him as selfish, othershave defended him. His best defense is his work. If anything so freshand readable as _Walden_ be the result, we might be willing to denyourselves the society of some of our urban friends, without chargingthem with selfishness. Thoreau is sometimes called a "wild man"; in asense, he is untamed. He himself confessed, --"There is in my nature, methinks, a singular yearning toward all wildness. " Yet he was a truelover of men. He hated slavery and went to jail rather than pay histaxes, because he disbelieved in supporting a government that upheldslavery. When his friend, the philosophic Emerson, peered into theprison cell and said, --"Henry, why are you here?" the quick retortwas, --"Why are you not here?"

It must be remembered that Thoreau lived in a time of socialexperiment. Hawthorne had thrown in his lot for a brief time with theBrook Farm idealists. Why should not Thoreau make an experiment of hisown? Why not live the simple life before Wagner wrote about it? He wastired of the conventionalities of society, of the incessantinterruptions to steady thought. Society is naught but a conspiracy tocompel imitation. "The head monkey of Paris puts on a traveler's cap, and all the monkeys in America do the same. " So Thoreau moves out intothe woods by the side of Walden Pond. Before he can live there he mustbuild his house:

"Near the end of March, 1845, I borrowed an axe and went down to thewoods by Walden Pond, nearest to where I intended to build my house, and began to cut down some tall arrowy pines, still in their youth, for timber. It is difficult to begin without borrowing, but perhaps itis the most generous course thus to permit your fellow-men to have aninterest in your enterprise. The owner of the axe as he released hishold on it, said that it was the apple of his eye; but I returned itsharper than I received it. "

His house, when finished, was ten feet wide and fifteen long. Theexact cost was twenty-eight dollars, twelve and one-half cents. In_Walden_ he gives an itemized account of the cost. And then he adds, with a twinkle of his eye, I think, --"I intend to build me a housewhich will surpass any on the main street in Concord in grandeur andluxury, as soon as it pleases me as much and will cost me no more thanmy present one. "

Thoreau also finds some satisfaction that his house cost him less thanthe year's rent of a college room at Harvard; for there the mere rentof a student's room, "which is only a little larger than my own, isthirty dollars each year, though the corporation had the advantage ofbuilding thirty-two side by side and under one roof. "

In this book he gives a very interesting account of what his food costhim during the eight months from July 4 to March 1. Here is his list:

 Rice $1. 73-½ Molasses 1. 73 Rye meal 1. 04-¾ Indian meal . 99-¾ Pork . 22 Flour . 88 Sugar . 80 Lard . 65 Apples . 25 Dried apple . 22 Sweet potatoes . 10 One pumpkin . 06 One watermelon . 02 Salt . 03

"Yes, " says he, "I did eat $8. 74, all told; but I should not thusunblushingly publish my guilt, if I did not know that most of myreaders were equally guilty with myself, and that their deeds wouldlook no better in print. " In this connection one may call to mind areported saying of Mrs. Emerson's to the effect that Henry never gotvery far away from the sound of the dinner horn. It is not hard toimagine that the hospitable Emerson often invited the kindred-spiritedThoreau into his house for a warm and abundant dinner. Another writerrecently has advanced also this thought: Thoreau was not so much of aselfish hermit as it might appear. He went into the woods to make hishouse or hut a station on the underground railroad. If this be true, anew and different light is thrown upon Thoreau's conduct. 

Thoreau was a great lover of nature and the things of nature lovedhim. Dr. Channing gives us this glimpse of the man:

"Thoreau named all the birds without a gun, a weapon he never used inmature years. He neither killed nor imprisoned any animal, unlessdriven by acute needs. He brought home a flying squirrel, to study itsmode of flight, but quickly carried it back to the wood. He possessedtrue instincts of topography, and could conceal choice things in thebush and find them again. .. . If Thoreau needed a box in his walk, hewould strip a piece of birch bark off the tree, fold it, when cutstraightly, together, and put his tender lichen or brittle creaturetherein. "

Emerson supplements this picture with the following account of a visithe once made to Walden:

"The naturalist waded into the pool for the water plants, and hisstrong legs were no insignificant part of his armor. On this day helooked for the menyanthes and detected it across the wide pool; and, on examination of the floret, declared that it had been in flower fivedays. He drew out of his breast-pocket a diary, and read the names ofall the plants that should bloom that day, whereof he kept account asa banker does when his notes are due. .. . He could pace rods moreaccurately than another man could measure them with rod and chain. Hecould find his way in the woods at night better by his feet than byhis eyes. He knew every track in the snow and on the ground, and whatcreature had taken the path in the snow before him. "

Thoreau could write the most beautiful descriptions when he was soinclined. Here is an exquisite description of a snowstorm. 

"Did you ever admire the steady, silent, windless fall of the snow, insome lead-colored sky, silent save the little ticking of the flakes asthey touched the twigs? It is chased silver, molded over the pines andoak leaves. Soft shades hang like curtains along the closely-drapedwood-paths. Frozen apples become little cider-vats. The old crookedapple-trees, frozen stiff in the pale, shivering sunlight, thatappears to be dying of consumption, gleam forth like the heroes of oneof Dante's cold hells; we would mind any change in the mercury of thedream. The snow crunches under the feet; the chopper's axe ringsfunereally through the tragic air. At early morn the frost onbutton-bushes and willows was silvery and every stem and minutest twigand filamentary weed came up a silver thing, while the cottage smokerose salmon-colored into that oblique day. At the base of ditches wereshooting crystals, like the blades of an ivory-handled penknife, therosettes and favors fretted of silver on the flat ice. The littlecascades in the brook were ornamented with transparent shields, andlong candelabrums and spermaceti-colored fools'-caps and platedjellies and white globes, with the black water whirling alongtransparently underneath. The sun comes out, and all at a glance, rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and emeralds start into intense life onthe angles of the snow crystals. "

LIX

THE LAST DAYS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE

There has been great difference of opinion concerning the genius ofPoe. His life also has been the subject of much controversy. By somePoe is painted as a fiend incarnate, by others as a man more sinnedagainst than sinning. When Howells visited Emerson he was surprised tohear the Concord Sage refer to Poe as the "jingle man, " but thenEmerson himself had been treated rather contemptuously by Poe, andthat, together with Emerson's lack of appreciation of melody, mayaccount for the "jingle man" expression. 

It is not strange that Poe has been the subject of bitter criticism. He himself was bitter and unjust in his criticisms of others. He oncewrote: "Bryant is not _all_ a fool. Mr. Willis is not _quite_ an ass. Mr. Longfellow _will_ steal, but, perhaps, he cannot help it. " The manwho will write like that must expect similar vituperation in return. To have friends, a man must be friendly. Poe was lacking in those warmhuman sympathies that attract our fellow-men. The human touch lackingin his art is also lacking in his life. "Except the wife who idolizedhim, " writes Mr. Woodberry in his excellent Life of Poe, "and themother who cared for him, no one touched his heart in the years of hismanhood, and at no time was love so strong in him as to rule his life;as he was self-indulgent, he was self-absorbed, and outside of hisfamily no kind act, no noble affection, no generous sacrifice isrecorded of him. "

In _Scribner's Magazine_, 1878, Mrs. Susan T. Weiss in writing of the_Last Days of Edgar Allan Poe_, one of the most accurate accounts ofthis period of the poet's life, gives us a more pleasing impression. We quote the following extracts:

It was a day or two after his arrival that Poe, accompanied by hissister, called on us. .. . The remembrance of that first meeting withthe poet is still as vividly impressed upon my mind as though it hadbeen but yesterday. A shy and dreamy girl, scarcely more than a child, I had all my life taken an interest in those strange stories and poemsof Edgar Poe; and now, with my old childish impression of their authorscarcely worn off, I regarded the meeting with an eager, yet shrinkinganticipation. As I entered the parlor, Poe was seated near the window, quietly conversing. His attitude was easy and graceful, with one armlightly resting on the back of his chair. His dark curling hair wasthrown back from his broad forehead--a style in which he habituallywore it. At sight of him, the impression produced upon me was of arefined, highbred, and chivalrous gentleman. I use this word"chivalrous" as exactly descriptive of something in his whole_personnel_, distinct from either polish or high-breeding, and which, though instantly apparent, was yet an effect too subtle to bedescribed. He rose on my entrance, and, other visitors being present, stood with one hand on the back of his chair, awaiting my greeting. Sodignified was his manner, so reserved his expression, that Iexperienced an involuntary recoil, until I turned to him and saw hiseyes suddenly brighten as I offered my hand; a barrier seemed to meltbetween us, and I felt that we were no longer strangers. .. . 

While upon this subject, I venture, though with great hesitation, tosay a word in relation to Poe's own marriage with his cousin, VirginiaClemm. I am aware that there exists with the public but one view ofthis union, and that so lovely and touching in itself, that to mar thepicture with even a shadow inspires almost a feeling of remorse. Yetsince in the biography of a distinguished man of genius truth is aboveall things desirable, and since in this instance the facts do notredound to the discredit of any party concerned, I may be allowed tostate what I have been assured is truth. 

Poets are proverbial for uncongenial marriages, and to this Poe canscarcely be classed as an exception. From the time when as a youth ofnineteen he became a tutor to his sweet and gentle little cousin ofsix years old, he loved her with the protective tenderness of an elderbrother. As years passed he became the subject of successive fanciesor passions for various charming women; but she gradually budding intoearly womanhood experienced but one attachment--an absorbing devotionto her handsome, talented, and fascinating cousin. So intense was thispassion that her health and spirits became seriously affected, andher mother, aroused to painful solicitude, spoke to Edgar about it. This was just as he was preparing to leave her house, which had beenfor some years his home, and enter the world of business. The idea ofthis separation was insupportable to Virginia. The result was thatPoe, at that time a young man of twenty-eight, married his little, penniless, and delicate child-cousin of fourteen or fifteen, and thusunselfishly secured her own and her mother's happiness. In his wife hehad ever the most tender and devoted of companions; but it was his owndeclaration that he ever missed in her a certain intellectual andspiritual sympathy necessary to perfect happiness in such an union. .. . He was never a deliberately unkind husband, and toward the close ofMrs. Poe's life he was assiduous in his tender care and attention. Yethis own declaration to an intimate friend of his youth was that hismarriage "had not been a congenial one;" and I repeatedly heard thematch ascribed to Mrs. Clemm, by those who were well acquainted withthe family and the circumstances. In thus alluding to a subject sodelicate, I have not lightly done so, or unadvisedly made a statementwhich seems refuted by the testimony of so many who have written ofthe "passionate idolatry" with which the poet regarded his wife. Ihave heard the subject often and freely discussed by Poe's mostintimate friends, including his sisters, and upon this authority Ispeak. Lovely in person, sweet and gentle in disposition, his youngwife deserved, doubtless, all the love that it was in his nature tobestow. Of his unvarying filial affection for Mrs. Clemm, and of heralmost angelic devotion to himself and his interests, there can be noquestion. 

Once in discussing _The Raven_, Poe observed that he had never heardit correctly delivered by even the best readers--that is, not as hedesired that it should be read. That evening, a number of visitorsbeing present, he was requested to recite the poem, and complied. Hisimpressive delivery held the company spell-bound, but in the midst ofit, I, happening to glance toward the open window above the level roofof the greenhouse, beheld a group of sable faces the whites of whoseeyes shone in strong relief against the surrounding darkness. Thesewere a number of our family servants, who having heard much talk about"Mr. Poe, the poet, " and having but an imperfect idea of what a poetwas, had requested permission of my brother to witness the recital. Asthe speaker became more impassioned and excited, more conspicuous grewthe circle of white eyes, until when at length he turned suddenlytoward the window, and, extending his arm, cried, with awfulvehemence, "Get thee back into the tempest, and the night's Plutonianshore!" there was a sudden disappearance of the sable visages, ascuttling of feet, and the gallery audience was gone. Ludicrous as wasthe incident, the final touch was given when at that moment Miss Poe, who was an extraordinary character in her way, sleepily entered theroom, and with a dull and drowsy deliberation seated herself on herbrother's knee. He had subsided from his excitement into a gloomydespair, and now, fixing his eyes upon his sister, he concluded:

 And the raven never flitting, still is sitting, _still_ is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And its eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming--

The effect was irresistible; and as the final "nevermore" was solemnlyuttered the half-suppressed titter of two very young persons in acorner was responded to by a general laugh. Poe remarked quietly thaton his next delivery of a public lecture "he would take Rose along, toact the part of the raven, in which she seemed born to excel. " . .. 

It is with feelings of deep sadness, even after the lapse of so manyyears, that I approach the close of these reminiscences. 

Poe one day told me that it was necessary that he should go to NewYork. He must make certain preparations for establishing his magazine, the _Stylus_, but he should in less than two weeks return to Richmond, where he proposed henceforth to reside. He looked forward to thisarrangement with great pleasure. "I mean to turn over a new leaf; Ishall begin to lead a new life, " he said, confidently. He had oftenspoken to me of his books, --"few, but _recherché_, "--and he nowproposed to send certain of these by express, for my perusal. "Youmust annotate them extensively, " he said. "A book wherein the minds ofthe author and the reader are thus brought in contact is to me ahundredfold increased in interest. It is like flint and steel. " One ofthe books which he desired me to read was Mrs. Browning's poems, andanother one of Hawthorne's works. I remember his saying of the latterthat he was "indisputably the best prose writer in America;" that"Irving and the rest were mere commonplace beside him;" and that"there was more inspiration of true genius in Hawthorne's prose thanin all Longfellow's poetry. " This may serve to give an idea of his ownopinion of what constitutes genius, though some of Longfellow's poemshe pronounced "perfect of their kind. "

The evening of the day previous to that appointed for his departurefrom Richmond, Poe spent at my mother's. He declined to enter theparlors, where a number of visitors were assembled, saying hepreferred the more quiet sitting-room; and here I had a long andalmost uninterrupted conversation with him. He spoke of his future, seeming to anticipate it with an eager delight, like that of youth. Hedeclared that the last few weeks in the society of his old and newfriends had been the happiest that he had known for many years, andthat when he again left New York he should there leave behind all thetrouble and vexation of his past life. .. . 

In speaking of his own writings Poe expressed his conviction that hehad written his best poems, but that in prose he might yet surpasswhat he had already accomplished. .. . 

He was the last of the party to leave the house. We were standing onthe portico, and after going a few steps he paused, turned, and againlifted his hat, in a last adieu. At the moment, a brilliant meteorappeared in the sky directly over his head, and vanished in the east. We commented laughingly upon the incident; but I remembered it sadlyafterward. 

That night he spent at Duncan's lodge; and as his friend said, satlate at his window, meditatively smoking, and seemingly disinclinedfor conversation. On the following morning he went into the city, accompanied by his friends Dr. Gibbon Carter and Dr. Mackenzie. Theday was passed with them and others of his intimate friends. Late inthe evening he entered the office of Dr. John Carter, and spent anhour in looking over the day's papers; then taking Dr. Carter's canehe went out, remarking that he would step across to Saddler's (afashionable restaurant) and get supper. From the circumstance of histaking the cane, leaving his own in its place, it is probable that hehad intended to return; but at the restaurant he met with someacquaintances who detained him until late, and then accompanied him tothe Baltimore boat. According to their account he was quite sober andcheerful to the last, remarking, as he took leave of them, that hewould soon be in Richmond again. 

. .. Three days after, a friend came to me with the day's issue of the_Richmond Dispatch_. Without a word she pointed to a particularparagraph, where I read, --"Death of Edgar A. Poe, in Baltimore. "

Poe had made himself popular in Richmond, people had become interestedin him, and his death cast a universal gloom over the city. His oldfriends, and even those more recently formed, and whom he hadstrangely attached to himself, deeply regretted him. Mr. Sully came toconsult with me about a picture of _The Raven_ which he intended tomake; and in the course of the conversation expressed himself inregard to his lost friend with a warmth of feeling and appreciationnot usual to him. The two had been schoolmates; and the artist said:"Poe was one of the most warm-hearted and generous of men. In hisyouth and prosperity, when admired and looked up to by all hiscompanions, he invariably stood by me and took my part. I was a dullboy at learning, and Edgar never grudged time or pains in assistingme. " In further speaking, he said, with a decision and earnestnesswhich impressed me, "It was Mr. Allan's cruelty in casting him uponthe world, a beggar, which ruined Poe. Some who had envied him tookadvantage of his change of fortune to slight and insult him. He wassensitive and proud, and felt the change keenly. It was this whichembittered him. By nature no person was less inclined to reserve orbitterness, and as a boy he was frank and generous to a fault. " Inspeaking of his poems, Mr. Sully remarked: "He has an eye fordramatic, but not for scenic or artistic effect. Except in _TheRaven_, I can nowhere in his poems find a subject for a picture. "

In closing these reminiscences, I may be allowed to make a few remarksfounded upon my actual personal knowledge of Poe, in at least thephase of character in which he appeared to me. What he may have beento his ordinary associates, or to the world at large, I do not know;and in the picture presented to us by Dr. Griswold, --half maniac, halfdemon, --I confess, I cannot recognize a trait of the gentle, grateful, warm-hearted man whom I saw amid his friends, --his careworn face allaglow with generous feeling in the kindness and appreciation to whichhe was so little accustomed. His faults were sufficiently apparent;but for these a more than ordinary allowance should be made, inconsideration of the unfavorable influences surrounding him from hisvery birth. He was ever the sport of an adverse fortune. Born inpenury, reared in affluence, treated at one time with perniciousindulgence and then literally turned into the streets, a beggar and anoutcast, deserted by those who had formerly courted him, maliciouslycalumniated, smarting always under a sense of wrong andinjustice, --what wonder that his bright, warm, and naturally generousand genial nature should have become embittered? What wonder that hiskeenly sensitive and susceptible poetic temperament should have becomejarred, out of tune, and into harsh discord with himself and mankind?Let the just and the generous pause before they judge; and upon theirlips the breath of condemnation will soften into a sigh of sympathyand regret. 

LX

ARTEMUS WARD

Poor Artemus! says Haweis in his lecture on the American humorist, Ishall not see his like again, as he appeared for a few short weeksbefore an English audience at the Egyptian Hall, Piccadilly. 

Sometimes, as to looks, profoundly dejected, at others shy orreproachful; nervously anxious to please (apparently), yet with acertain twinkle at the back of his eye which convinced you of hisperfect _sang froid_, and one thing always--full, unescapably full, offun. .. . 

When Artemus arrived here in 1866 he was a dying man. 

I can see him now, as he came on the narrow platform in front of hisinferior panorama, and stole a glance at the densely packed room andthen at his panorama. 

His tall, gaunt, though slender figure, his curly light hair and largeaquiline nose, which always reminded me of a macaw; his thin faceflushed with consumption, his little cough, which seemed to shake himto pieces, and which he said "was wearing him out, " at which we alllaughed irresistibly, and then felt ashamed of ourselves, as well wemight; but he himself seemed to enjoy his cough. It was all part ofthat odd, topsy-turvy mind in which everything appeared most naturalupside down!

On first entering he would seem profoundly unconscious that anythingwas expected of him, but after looking at the audience, then at hisown clothes, and then apologetically at his panorama, he began toexplain its merits. 

The fact is Artemus intended having the finest scenes that could bepainted, but he gave that up on account of the expense, and thendetermined to get the worst as the next best thing for his purpose. 

When anything very bad came up he would pause and gaze admiringly atthe canvas, and then look round a little reproachfully at the company. 

"This picture, " he would say, "is a great work of art; it is an oilpainting done in petroleum. It is by the Old Masters. It was the lastthing they did before dying. They did this, and then they expired. Iwish you were nearer to it so you could see it better. I wish I couldtake it to your residences and let you see it by daylight. Some of thegreatest artists in London come here every morning before daylightwith lanterns to look at it. They say they never saw anything like itbefore, and they hope they never shall again!"

Certain curious brown splotches appearing in the foreground, Artemuspointed gravely to them, and said:

"These are intended for horses; I know they are, because the artisttold me so. After two years, he came to me one morning and said, 'Mr. Ward, I cannot conceal it from you any longer; they are horses. '"

Apropos of nothing he observed:

"I really don't care for money; I only travel around to show myclothes. "

This was a favorite joke of his. He would look with a piteousexpression of discomfort and almost misery at his black trousers andswallowtail coat, a costume in which he said he was always mostwretched. 

"These clothes I have on, " he continued, "were a great success inAmerica. " And then quite irrelevantly and rather hastily, "How oftendo large fortunes ruin young men! I should like to be ruined, but Ican get on very well as I am!"

So the lecture dribbled on with little fragments of impertinentbiography, mere pegs for slender witticisms like this:

"When quite a child I used to draw on wood. I drew a small cartload ofraw material over a wooden bridge, the people of the village noticedme, I drew their attention, they said I had a future before me; up tothat time I had an idea it was behind me. "

Or this:

"I became a man. I have always been mixed up with art. I have an unclewho takes photographs, and I have a servant who takes anything he canset his hands on. "

With one more example from his life among the Mormons, which, perhaps, though brief, includes a greater variety of wit and humor than anysingle passage I could select, I must conclude my memorial glimpses ofthis incomparable and lamented humorist. 

"I regret to say that efforts were made to make a Mormon of me while Iwas in Utah. 

"It was leap year when I was there, and seventeen young widows--thewives of a deceased Mormon (he died by request)--offered me theirhearts and hands. I called upon them one day, and taking their soft, white hands in mine--which made eighteen hands altogether--I foundthem in tears. And I said 'Why is this thus?--what is the reason ofthis thusness?'

"They hove a sigh--seventeen sighs of different size. They said--

"'Oh, soon thou wilt be gonested away!'

"I told them that when I got ready to leave a place I usuallywentested. They said--'Doth not like us?'

"I said, 'I doth, I doth!' I also said, 'I hope your intentions arehonorable, as I am a lone child and my parents are far, far away!'

"They then said, 'Wilt not marry us?'

"I said, 'Oh no, it cannot was. '

"Again they asked me to marry them, and again I declined. When theycried--

"'Oh, cruel man: this is too much--oh, too much!'

"I told them it was on account of the muchness that I declined. "

LXI

EDMUND GOSSE VISITS WHITTIER

In December of 1884, Mr. Edmund Gosse, one of the most distinguishedof English critics, visited Whittier at a house called Oak Knoll, inMassachusetts, where he was then staying with friends. We quote briefextracts from a report of that visit as published in _Good Words_, anEnglish magazine:

"Doubtless in leafy season Oak Knoll may have its charms, but it wasdistinctly sinister that December morning. We rang, and after a longpause the front door opened slightly, and a very unprepossessing dogemerged, and shut the door (if I may say so) behind him. We were faceto face with this animal, which presented none of the featuresidentified in one's mind with the idea of Mr. Whittier. It sniffedunpleasantly, but we spoke to it most blandly and it became assuredthat we were not tramps. The dog sat down, and looked at us; we hadnowhere to sit down, but we looked at the dog. Then, after manyblandishments, but feeling very uncomfortable, I ventured to hold thedog in conversation while I rang again. After another pause the doorwas slightly opened, and a voice of no agreeable timbre asked what wewanted. We explained, across the dog, that we had come by appointmentto see Mr. Whittier. The door was closed a second time, and, if ourcarriage had still been waiting, we should certainly have driven backto Danvers. But at length a hard-featured woman grudgingly admittedus, and showed us, growling as she did it, into a parlor. 

"Our troubles were then over, for Mr. Whittier, himself appeared, withall that report had ever told of a gentle sweetness and dignifiedcordial courtesy. He was then seventy-seven years old, and, althoughhe spoke of age and feebleness, he showed few signs of either; he was, in fact, to live eight years more. Perhaps because the room was low, he seemed surprisingly tall; he must, in fact, have been a little lessthan six feet high. The peculiarity of his face rested in theextraordinary large and luminous black eyes, set in black eyebrows, and fringed with thick black eye-lashes curiously curved inward. .. . 

"His generosity to those much younger and less gifted than himself iswell known, and I shall not dwell on the good-natured things which heproceeded to say to his English visitor. He made no profession, at anytime, of being a critic, and his formula was that such and such verseor prose had given him pleasure--'I am grateful to thee for all thatenjoyment' was his charming way of being kind. .. . He spoke with greatemotion of Emerson--'the noblest human being I have known, ' and ofLongfellow, 'perhaps the sweetest. But you will see Holmes, ' he added. I said that it was my great privilege to be seeing Dr. Holmes everyday, and that the night before he had sent all sorts of affectionatemessages by me to Mr. Whittier. The latter expressed great curiosityto see Holmes's short _Life of Emerson_ which, in fact, was publishedfive or six days later. .. . Mr. Whittier greatly surprised me byconfessing that he was quite color-blind. He exemplified his conditionby saying that if I came to Amesbury I should be scandalized by one ofhis carpets. It appeared that he was never permitted, by the guardiangoddess of his hearth, to go 'shopping' for himself, but that once, being in Boston, and needing a carpet, he had ventured to go to astore and buy what he thought to be a very nice, quiet article, precisely suited to adorn a Quaker home. When it arrived at Amesburythere was a universal shout of horror, for what had struck Mr. Whittier as a particularly soft combination of browns and graysproved, to normal eyes, to be a loud pattern of bright red roses on afield of the crudest cabbage-green. "

LXII

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF WHITTIER

In the _New England Magazine_ Charlotte Forten Grimke writesentertainingly of Whittier. From this article we are permitted toquote the following extracts:

"And so it happened that, one lovely summer day, my friend and I foundourselves on the train, rapidly whirling eastward, through thepleasant old town of Newburyport, across the 'shining Merrimac, ' onour way to the poet's home in Amesbury. Arriving at the station, wefound Mr. Whittier awaiting us, and a walk of a few minutes brought usto his house on Friend Street. Amesbury, a busy manufacturing town, pleasantly situated on the Merrimac, impressed me at first as hardlyretired enough for a poet's home; for fresh in my recollection wereLongfellow's historic house, guarded by stately poplars, standing backfrom the quiet Cambridge street, and Lowell's old mansion, completelyburied in its noble elms; and each of these had quite realized myideal of the home of a poet. But the little house looked very quietand homelike; and when we entered it and received the warm welcome ofthe poet's sister, we felt, as all felt who entered that hospitabledoor, the very spirit of peace descending upon us. The house wasthen white (it was afterwards painted a pale yellow), with greenblinds, and a little vine-wreathed piazza on one side, upon whichopened the glass door of 'the garden room, ' the poet's favoritesitting-room and study. The windows of this room looked out upon apleasant, old-fashioned garden. The walls on both sides of thefireplace were covered with books. The other walls were hung withpictures, among which we noticed 'The Barefoot Boy, ' a painting of Mr. Whittier's birthplace in Haverhill, a copy of that lovely picture, 'The Motherless, ' under which were written some exquisite lines byMrs. Stowe, and a beautiful little sea-view, painted by a friend ofthe poet. Vases of fresh, bright flowers stood upon the mantelpiece. After we had rested we went into the little parlor, where hung theportrait of the loved and cherished mother, who some years before hadpassed away to the 'Better Land. ' Hers was one of those sweet, agedfaces which one often sees among the Friends, --full of repose, breathing a benediction upon all around. There were other pictures andbooks, and upon a table in the corner stood Rogers' 'Wounded Scout. '

 [Illustration: JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER From a photograph]

"At the head of the staircase hung a great cluster of pansies, purpleand white and gold. Mr. Whittier called our attention to theirwonderful resemblance to human faces, --a resemblance which we so oftensee in pansies, and which was brought out with really startlingdistinctness in this picture. 

"In the cool, pleasant chamber assigned to us, pervaded by an air ofQuaker serenity and purity, was a large painting of the poet in hisyouth. This was the realization of my girlish dreams. There were theclustering curls, the brilliant dark eyes, the firm, resolute mouth. He looked like a youthful Bayard, 'without fear and without reproach, 'ready to throw himself unflinchingly into the most stirring scenes ofthe battle of life. 

"We were at once greatly interested in Miss Whittier, and impressed bythe simplicity and kindness of her manner. We saw the soul's beautyshining in her soft, dark eyes, and in the smile which, like herbrother's, was very winning, and we felt it in the music, of hergentle voice and the warm pressure of her hand. There was a refreshingatmosphere of unworldliness about her. She had rarely been away fromher home, and although her brother's fame obliged her to receive manystrangers, she had never, as she told us, been able to overcome ashyness of disposition, except in the case of a very few friends. Shewas naturally witty and original, and when she did shake off hershyness, had a childlike way of saying bright things which was verycharming. She and her brother had lived together, alone since theirmother's death, and in their mutual devotion have been well comparedto Charles Lamb and his sister. 

"We spent a delightful evening in the garden-room in quiet, cheerfultalk. In society Mr. Whittier had the reputation of being very shy, and he was so among strangers; but at times, in the companionship ofhis friends, no one could be more genial. He had even a boyishfrankness of manner, a natural love of fun, a keen appreciation of thehumorous, which the sorrows and poor health of many years failed tosubdue. That night he talked to us freely of his childhood, of thelife on the old farm in Haverhill, which he has so vividly describedin _Snow-Bound_, and showed us a venerable book, _Davideis_, being ahistory of David written in rhyme, the quaintest and most amusingrhyme, by Thomas Ellwood, a friend of Milton. It was the first book of'poetry, ' he told us, that he read when a boy. He entertained us withstories of people who came to see him. He had many very interestingand charming visitors, of course, but there were also many exceedinglyqueer ones, and these, he said with a queer smile, generally 'broughttheir carpet bags!' He said he was thankful to live in such a place asAmesbury, where people did not speak to him about his poems, nor thinkof him as a poet. Sometimes he had amused himself by tracking the mostpersistent of the lion-hunters, and found that the same individualswent to Emerson and Longfellow and other authors, and made preciselythe same speeches. Emerson was not much annoyed by them; he enjoyedstudying character in all its phases. 

"Begging letters and begging visits were also very frequent, and hissister told us that her brother had frequently been victimized in hisdesire to help those whose pitiful stories he believed. One day hereceived a letter from a man in a neighboring town, asking him for aloan of ten dollars, and assuring him that he should blow his brainsout if Mr. Whittier did not send him the money. The tone of the lettermade him doubt the sincerity of the writer, and he did not send themoney, comforting himself, he said, with the thought that the manreally had no brains to blow out. 'I must confess, however, ' headded, 'I looked rather anxiously at the newspapers for the next fewdays, but seeing no news of a suicide in the neighboring town, I wasrelieved. '

"His sister once told us of an incident which occurred during the war, which pleased them very much. One night, at a late hour, the door-bellrang, and her brother, on answering it, found a young man in anofficer's uniform standing at the door. 'Is this Mr. Whittier?' heasked. 'Yes. ' 'Well, sir, ' was the quick reply, 'I only wanted to havethe pleasure of shaking hands with you. ' And with that he seized thepoet's hand, shook it warmly, and rushed away, before Mr. Whittier hadrecovered from his surprise. 

"In subsequent visits to Mr. Whittier, he was sometimes induced totalk about his poems, although that was a subject on which he rarelyspoke. On my friend's once warmly praising _Maud Muller_, he saiddecidedly that he did not like the poem, because it was too sad; itministered to the spirit of unrest and dissatisfaction which was onlytoo prevalent. With _My Psalm_ he felt much better satisfied, becauseit was more hopeful. His favorite poets were Wordsworth and Burns. Heonce showed us an autograph letter of Burns, which he prized veryhighly, and a number of beautiful photographs of Scotch scenery, thegift of a sturdy old Scotchman, a neighbor of his and also an ardent, admirer of Burns. 

"Our conversation occasionally touched on the subject of marriage, andI remember his asking us if we could imagine why there should be somuch unhappiness among married people, even among those who seemed tohave everything calculated to make them happy, and who really lovedeach other. He said he had pondered over the subject a good deal, andhad finally concluded that it was because they saw too much of eachother. He did not believe it was well for any two human beings to havetoo much of each other's society. We told him that, being amuch-to-be-commiserated bachelor, he was not competent authority onthat subject. 

"Among the most intimate of his friends were Mr. And Mrs. James T. Fields, Colonel Higginson, Charles Sumner, and Bayard Taylor. To thetwo latter, and also to Emerson, he has alluded very beautifully inone of his most characteristic poems, _The Last Walk in Autumn_. 

"On visiting the poet after my return from the South, for a vacation, I found a new inmate of the house, a gray and scarlet parrot, namedCharlie, a great pet of the poet and his sister, and far-famed for hiswit and wisdom. He could say many things with great distinctness, andalthough at first refusing rather spitefully to make my acquaintance, when I invited him to come into the kitchen and get his supper he atonce hopped upon my hand and behaved in the most amicable manner. Itwas very comical to see him dance to a tune of Mr. Whittier'swhistling. His master told us that he would climb toilsomely up thespout, pausing at every step or two to say, in a tone of the deepestself-pity, 'Poor Charlie!' and when he reached the roof screamingimpertinently at the passers-by. The Irish children said that hecalled them 'Paddies, ' and threatened him with dire vengeance. Mr. Whittier said he did not know; he 'could believe anything of thatbird. ' Charlie's favorite amusement was shaking the unripe pears fromthe trees in the garden; and when he saw Miss Whittier approaching, hewould steal away with drooping head, like a child caught in a naughtyaction. This gifted bird afterwards died, and was much missed by thepoet, who alluded to him in the poem entitled _The Common Question_. 

"Mr. Whittier showed me a couple of stuffed birds which had been sentto him by the Emperor of Brazil, after reading his _Cry of a LostSoul_, in allusion to the bird in South American forests which has sointensely mournful a note that the Indians give it a name whichsignifies a lost soul. The first birds which were sent did not reachhim, and the Emperor on hearing it sent two more. The bird is largerthan a mocking bird, and has sober gray plumage, very unlike thebright-hued creatures usually seen in tropical forests. 

"The Emperor was a warm admirer of Mr. Whittier, and one of the firstpersons for whom he inquired on reaching Boston was the poet. Therewas some delay about their meeting and Dom Pedro became veryimpatient. At last they met in a house in Boston. Dom Pedro expressedgreat delight at meeting the poet, and talked with him a long time, paying very little attention to any one else. On leaving, he asked Mr. Whittier to accompany him downstairs, and before entering his carriagethrew his arms around the astonished poet and embraced him warmly. 

"Rare and beautiful were the qualities which met in Mr. Whittier: asingularly unworldly and sweet disposition, and unwavering love oftruth and justice, a keen sense of humor, the highest type ofcourage, and a firm faith in God's goodness, which no amount ofsuffering ever shook. For years he was an invalid, a martyr to severeheadaches. He once told me that he had not for a long time writtenanything without suffering. The nearest and dearest of his earthlyties had been severed by death. But he never rebelled. His lifeexemplified the spirit of resignation which is breathed throughout somany of his poems. 

 All as God wills, who wisely heeds To give or to withhold, And knoweth more of all my needs Than all my prayers have told. 

"My husband and I made our last visit to him two years ago, at OakKnoll. He gave us his customary warm greeting and, although inextremely feeble health, was as sweet and genial in spirit and asentertaining in conversation as ever. He took us into his cosey littlelibrary, and talked about his books and pictures and old friends, andpromised to send us his latest photograph, --which he afterwards did. Fearing to weary him, we stayed but a short time. So frail he looked, that in parting from him our hearts were saddened by the thought thatwe might not look upon that dear face again. And so it proved. I shallever remember him as I saw him then, in his beautiful country home, surrounded by devoted friends, awaiting calmly the summons to enterinto rest--in that serene and lovely old age which comes only to thosegifted ones whose lives are the embodiment of all that is noblest andbest and sweetest in their poetry. 

"Farewell, beloved, revered friend! Thou art gone to join the lovedones who beckoned to thee from those blessed shores of Peace. To thee, how great the gain! To us, how infinite the loss! But thy influenceshall remain with us. Still shalt thou

 . .. Be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty-- Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. 

LXIII

HENRY WARD BEECHER

It would be no compliment to call Henry Ward Beecher the AmericanSpurgeon. He may be that, but he is more. If we can imagine Mr. Spurgeon and Mr. John Bright with a cautious touch of ProfessorMaurice and a strong tincture of the late F. W. Robertson--if, I say, it is possible to imagine such a compound being brought up in NewEngland and at last securely fixed in a New York pulpit, we shall geta product not unlike Henry Ward Beecher. .. . 

Mr. Beecher was brought up in the country. His novel, _Norwood_--notvery readable, by the way, although full of charming passages--aboundsin woods and streams, hills and dales, and flowers. "The willows, " hetells us somewhere, "had thrown off their silky catkins, and were inleaf; the elm was covered with chocolate-colored blossoms, the softmaple drew bees to its crimson tassels. " Would that all preachers andwriters used no more offensive and superfluous flowers of speech thansuch as these. .. . 

When he wants to illustrate the comfort of a powerful, unseen, thoughprotective love, he tells us how, as a boy, he woke up one midsummernight and listened, with a sense of half-uneasy awe, to the wild cryof the marsh birds, whilst the moonlight streamed full into his room;and then, as he grew more and more disturbed, he suddenly heard hisfather clear his throat "a-hem, " in the next room, and instantly thatfamiliar sound restored his equanimity. The illustration is simple, but it hits the mark and goes home. His affectionate tributes to hisfather and mother are constantly breaking forth in spite of himself. "I thank God, " he says, "for two things. First, that I was born andbred in the country, of parents that gave me a sound constitution anda noble example. I never can pay back what I got from my parents. NextI am thankful that I was brought up in circumstances where I neverbecame acquainted with wickedness. " How delightful it is to think of aman who, without a taint of conscious insincerity, but simply out ofthe fulness of his heart, can get up before four thousand people, andsay:

"I never was sullied in act, nor in thought when I was young. I grewup as pure as a woman. And I cannot express to God the thanks which Iowe to my mother, and to my father, and to the great household ofsisters and brothers among whom I lived. And the secondary knowledgeof those wicked things which I have gained in later life in aprofessional way, I gained under such guards that it was not harmfulto me. " . .. 

He has a wonderful way of importing his leisure hours into the pulpit, and making the great cooped-up multitude feel something of the joy andfreshness of his own exhilaration. One golden day above others seemsto have dwelt in his mind. He refers to it again and again. 

"When I walked one day on the top of Mt. Washington--glorious day ofmemory! Such another day I think I shall not experience till I standon the battlements of the New Jerusalem--how I was discharged of allimperfections; the wide far-spreading country which lay beneath me inbeauteous light, how heavenly it looked, and I communed with God. Ihad sweet tokens that he loved me. My very being rose right up intohis nature. I walked with him, and the cities far and near of NewYork, and all the cities and villages which lay between it and me, with their thunder, the wrangling of human passions below me, were tome as if they were not. "

Some of his sermons are full of vacation-rambles. He passes throughwoods and gardens and plucks flowers and fragrant leaves, which willall have to do service in Brooklyn Church; he watches the crowdedflight of pigeons from the treetops, and thinks of men's riches thatso make themselves wings and fly away. As he scales the mountains andsees the summer storms sweep through the valleys beneath him, hethinks of the storms in the human heart--"many, many storms there arethat lie low and hug the ground, and the way to escape them is to goup the mountain sides and get higher than they are. "

Mr. Beecher's travels in Europe were not thrown away upon his ardentand artistic temperament. He has stood before the great pictures tosome purpose, and has not failed to read their open secret. 

"Have you ever stood in Dresden to watch that matchless picture ofRaphael's, the 'Madonna di San Siste'? Engravings of it are allthrough the world; but no engraving has ever reproduced the mother'sface. The Infant Christ that she holds is far more nearly representedthan the mother. In her face there is a mist. It is wonder, it islove, it is adoration, it is awe--it is all these mingled, as if sheheld in her hands her babe, and yet it was God! That picture meansnothing to me as it does to the Roman Church; but it means everythingto me, because I believe that every mother should love the God that isin her child, and that every mother's heart should be watching todiscern and see in the child, which is more than flesh and blood, something that takes hold of immortality and glory. "

 --Selected from the _Contemporary Review_. 

LXIV

THE LONDON "TIMES" ON LOWELL

The London _Times_, sometimes nicknamed the _Thunderer_, was for manyyears the most influential paper in the world. Emerson in his _EnglishTraits_ says, "No power in England is more felt, more feared, or moreobeyed. " In view of the high position of this paper it is a matter ofinterest to our American students of literature to read what thispaper had to say on the death of Lowell. 

Here follows the larger part of the editorial from the _Times_:

The death of Mr. Lowell will probably be more keenly and widely feltin England than would be that of any other American, or, indeed, ofany other man who was not a fellow-countryman of our own. To very manyin England it will be counted as a grave personal loss; and thousandsmore will miss in him one whom through his writings they had admired, felt with, laughed with, as with a friend. For a long time past, infact ever since he quitted the Legation, his long annual visits toLondon have been regarded by a wide circle as one of the events of theyear, and he himself as one of the most valued guests. We had hopedthat this last June would again see him in his old London haunts, bright, genial, interesting as ever; but a cruel fate decided thatthis was not to be, and neither the Old World nor the New should knowhim more. Never a strong man, he has succumbed, at a ripe age, it istrue, but prematurely, as all will think who knew how fresh hisintelligence and his sympathies were to the last. With him therepasses away one of the very few Americans who were the equals of anyson of the Old World--of any Frenchman or any Englishman--in thatindefinable mixture of qualities, which we sum up for want of a betterword, under the name of culture. How did he arrive at it? The answeris, by natural gifts, by constant play of mind with mind in talk, andby reading. On those who casually met Mr. Lowell in society, hecertainly did not make the impression of a book-worm, or of a man towhom books were indispensable; but none the less is it true thatwhenever official business was not too heavy, he invariably read for a_minimum_ of four hours a day. This did not include the time that hegave to ephemeral literature; it was the time that he spent in theserious reading of books, generally old books. How many of us, notprofessed students, can show a record as good, or half as good? Heread quickly, too, in various languages, his favorites being theEnglish of the Elizabethans, Spanish, old French, and modern French. His excellent memory and wonderful assimilative power built up thisreading into the mental endowments that all the world admired. 

When Mr. Lowell came to England as the representative of the UnitedStates under the last Republican administration, London felt asympathetic curiosity as to the author of the famous _Biglow Papers_and of so much excellent prose criticism. In a very short time thefeeling warmed into admiration and friendship. The official worldspoke well of the way in which the new minister performed hisduties--generally not very heavy, but always demanding tact andprudence--of his position as minister. Menacing sounds, indeed, beganto be heard from across the ocean, when the Irish Fenians, who controlso much of the press of the United States, began to raise the cry thatMr. Lowell sacrificed the interests of their dynamitard friends to abrutal British government; but, as the Washington officials took nonotice, nobody here paid much attention to the matter. In social life, the new minister began to be a power. He went everywhere--to thehouses of the great, to the houses of the men of letters, and toplaces where such people most do congregate. His talk was excellentgive-and-take. He was neither a professional anecdotist, like anotherfamous American talker, Mr. Chauncey Depew, nor a man on the watch forsomething to disagree with, like Mr. Blaine, nor even, as was hisadmirable successor, Mr. Phelps, a man of long silences broken byflashes of humor. Mr. Lowell seemed to know everything and have hisknowledge always to hand; he was quick in repartee; he mixed anecdotewith reflection in the happiest manner; he laughed at others' jests, and they laughed at his. Still, one had to be a little careful withhim, for there were points on which he was extremely sensitive. Nobody, for example, must talk in his presence of _Americanisms_, orhint that the standard of language and literature observed in Americashowed any deflection from the best standard of the race. .. . 

On one occasion Mr. Lowell was sorely tempted to make his permanenthome here. Just about the time of his ceasing to be minister, he wasseriously sounded as to his willingness to be nominated to the newpost of professor of English language and literature at Oxford. Had heconsented to stand, not even a board determined to sink literature inphilology could have passed over his claims. But he declined, for tworeasons. There were claims of family, over in Massachusetts, and, greatly as he loved the mental atmosphere of England, he thought ithis duty not to accept a definitely English post. And the sense ofduty is strong in that old Puritan stock from which he sprang. 

. .. But the distinguishing feature of Mr. Lowell was his adding tothese high literary gifts the strong practical side which made of hima social power and a diplomatist. Naturally, such a man made a mark byhis speeches, and happy was the audience, at the unveiling of amonument or at a literary dinner, that had the privilege of listeningto Mr. Lowell. Seldom in England, where this kind of speaking is notcultivated as an art, have we witnessed such a perfect union ofself-possession, sense, and salt. The speech on Henry Fielding, thespeech in which he compared the sound of London to "the roaring loomof time, " the address on Democracy--to mention but a few--will not beeasily forgotten. Nor will those who had the privilege of experiencingit, in however slight a degree, forget the sweet affectionatenesswhich, in spite of an occasional irritability and over-sensitiveness, was at the root of Mr. Lowell's character. Corrupt politiciansdisliked him and feared the barbed arrows of his indignant wit; but hegoes to the grave mourned by all that is best in America, and he takeswith him the heart-felt regard as well as the admiration, of thiselder branch of our common English race. 

LXV

THE WRITING OF "AMERICA"

The Rev. Dr. Samuel F. Smith, author of _America_, died in Boston in1895. On April 3, of the same year, he had received a grand publictestimonial in Music Hall in recognition of his authorship of_America_. In the souvenir of that occasion Dr. Smith tells how hecame to write the poem that made him famous. 

"In the year 1831 William C. Woodbridge, of New York, a notededucator, was deputed to visit Germany and inspect the system of thepublic schools, that if he should find in them any features ofinterest unknown to our public schools here they might be adopted inthe schools of the United States. He found that in the German schoolsmuch attention was given to music; he also found many books containingmusic and songs for children. Returning home, he brought several ofthese music-books, and placed them in the hands of Mr. Lowell Mason, then a noted composer, organist, and choir leader. Having himself noknowledge of the German language he brought them to me at Andover, where I was then studying theology, requesting me, as I should findtime, to furnish him translations of the German words, or to writenew hymns and songs adapted to the German music. 

"On a dismal day in February, 1832, looking over one of these books, my attention was drawn to a tune which attracted me by its simple andnatural movement and its fitness for children's choirs. Glancing atthe German words at the foot of the page, I saw that they werepatriotic, and I was instantly inspired to write a patriotic hymn ofmy own. 

"Seizing a scrap of waste paper, I began to write, and in half an hourI think the words stood upon it substantially as they are sung to-day. I did not know at the time that the tune was the British _God Save theKing_. I do not share the regrets of those who deem it an evil thatthe national tune of Britain and America is the same. On the contrary, I deem it a new and beautiful tie of union between the mother and thedaughter, one furnishing the music (if, indeed, it is really English), and the other the words. 

"I did not propose to write a national hymn. I did not think that Ihad done so. I laid the song aside, and nearly forgot that I had madeit. Some weeks later I sent it to Mr. Mason, and on the followingFourth of July, much to my surprise, he brought it out at a children'scelebration in the Park Street Church, in Boston, where it was firstsung in public. "

LXVI

ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS AND HER FIRST STORY

Some years ago the author of _Gates Ajar_ told in an American magazinehow she began her literary career. From this account we quote:

"The town of Lawrence was three miles and a half from Andover. Up tothe year 1860 we had considered Lawrence chiefly in the light of aplace to drive to. .. . Upon the map of our young fancy the great millswere sketched in lightly; we looked up from the restaurant ice-creamto see the hands pour out for dinner, a dark and restless, but apatient, throng, used in those days, to standing eleven hours andquarter--women and girls--at their looms, six days of the week, andmaking no audible complaints; for socialism had not reached Lawrence, and anarchy was content to bray in distant parts of the geography atwhich the factory people had not arrived when they left school. .. . 

". .. One January evening, we were forced to think about the mills withcurdling horror that no one living in that locality when the tragedyhappened will forget. 

"At five o'clock the Pemberton Mills, all hands being at the time onduty, without a tremor of warning, sank to the ground. 

"At the erection of the factory a pillar with a defective core hadpassed careless inspectors. In technical language the core had'floated' an eighth of an inch from its position. The weak spot in thetoo thin wall of the pillar had bided its time, and yielded. The roof, the walls, the machinery fell upon seven hundred and fifty living menand women, and buried them. Most of these were rescued, buteighty-eight were killed. As the night came on, those watchers onAndover Hill who could not join the rescuing parties, saw a strangeand fearful light at the north. 

"Where we were used to watching the beautiful belt of the lightedmills blaze--a zone of laughing fire from east to west, upon thehorizon bar--a red and awful glare went up. The mill had taken fire. Alantern, overturned in the hands of a man who was groping to save animprisoned life, had flashed to the cotton, or the wool, or the oilwith which the ruins were saturated. One of the historicconflagrations of New England resulted. 

"With blanching cheeks we listened to the whispers that told us how themill-girls, caught in the ruins beyond hope of escape, began to sing. They were used to singing, poor things, at their looms--mill-girlsalways are--and their young souls took courage from the familiar soundof one another's voices. They sang the hymns and songs which they hadlearned in the schools and churches. No classical strains, no 'musicfor music's sake, ' ascended from that furnace; no ditty of love orfrolic, but the plain, religious outcries of the people: _Heaven is myHome_, _Jesus, Lover of my Soul_, and _Shall we Gather at the River?_Voice after voice dropped. The fire raced on. A few brave girls stillsang:

 Shall we gather at the river, There to walk and worship ever?

"But the startled Merrimac rolled by, red as blood beneath the glareof the burning mills, and it was left to the fire and the river tofinish the chorus. 

"At the time this tragedy occurred, I felt my share of its horror, like other people; but no more than that. My brother, being of theprivileged sex, was sent over to see the scene, but I was not allowedto go. 

"Years after, I cannot say just how many, the half-effaced negativecame back to form under the chemical of some new perception of thesignificance of human tragedy. 

"It occurred to me to use the event as the basis of a story. To thisend I set forth to study the subject. I had heard nothing in thosedays about 'material, ' and conscience in the use of it, and littleenough about art. We did not talk about realism then. Of criticalphraseology I knew nothing, and of critical standards only what I hadobserved by reading the best fiction. Poor novels and stories I didnot read. I do not remember being forbidden them; but, by thatparental art finer than denial, they were absent from my convenience. 

"It needed no instruction in the canons of art, however, to teach methat to do a good thing, one must work hard for it. So I gave the bestpart of a month to the study of the Pemberton Mill tragedy, driving toLawrence, and investigating every possible avenue of information leftat that too long remove of time which might give the data. I visitedthe rebuilt mills, and studied the machinery. I consulted engineersand officials and physicians, newspaper men, and persons who had beenin the mill at the time of its fall. I scoured the files of old localpapers, and from these I took certain portions of names, actuallyinvolved in the catastrophe, though, of course, fictitiously used. When there was nothing left for me to learn on the subject, I camehome and wrote a little story called "The Tenth of January, ' and sentit to the _Atlantic Monthly_, where it appeared in due time. 

"This story is of more interest to its author than it can possibly benow to any reader, because it distinctly marked for me the firstrecognition which I received from literary people. "

LXVII

SIDNEY LANIER

Next to Poe, Sidney Lanier ranks as the foremost of the poets of theSouth. In character Lanier is one of the rarest and purest of souls. His life was so chaste, his ideals so high, his devotion to his art sounselfish that he has been called "the Sir Galahad among Americanpoets. " Dr. Gilman, who in his capacity as president of Johns HopkinsUniversity had frequent opportunities to observe Lanier, who was aninstructor in this institution, has made the following comment, --"Theappearance of Lanier was striking. There was nothing eccentric or oddabout him, but his words, manners, ways of speech, were distinguished. I have heard a lady say that if he took his place in a crowdedhorse-car, an exhilarating atmosphere seemed to be introduced by hisbreezy ways. "

He was born in Georgia in 1842. After graduation from a small collegein his native state and then serving as tutor for a short time, heentered the Confederate army. During his war experiences, whether inthe field or in prison, he studied poetry and played the flute. Thesetwo arts were his passions for life. While yet in his college days hehad acquired a fine reputation as a flute-player. At eighteen he wassaid to be the best flute-player in Georgia. One of his collegefriends at the time made record of his admiration in writing, --"TutorLanier is the finest flute-player you or I ever saw. It is perfectlysplendid--his playing. He is far-famed for it. His flute cost fiftydollars, and he runs the notes as easily as any one on the piano. "

The passionate love of his sensitive soul is revealed in this poeticdescription of a visit to the opera:

"I have just come in from the _Tempest_ at the Grand Opera House . .. And my heart is so full. .. . In one interlude between the scenes we hada violin solo, adagio, with soft accompaniment by orchestra. As thefair tender notes came, they opened like flower-buds expanding intoflowers under the sweet rain of the accompaniment. Kind heavens! Myhead fell on the seat in front, I was weighed down with great lovesand great ideas and divine inflowings and devout outflowings, and aseach note grew and budded, and became a bud again and died into afresh birth in the next bud tone, I also lived these flower-tonelives, and grew and expanded, and folded back and died and was bornagain, and partook of the unfathomable mysteries of flowers andtones. " And at another time he writes in the same vein, --"'Twasopening night of Theodore Thomas' orchestra at Central Park Garden, and I could not resist the temptation to go and bathe in the sweetamber seas of this fine orchestra, and so I went, and tugged methrough a vast crowd, and, after standing some while, found a seat, and the baton waved, and I plunged into the sea, and lay and floated. Ah! the dear flutes and oboes and horns drifted me hither and thither, and the great violins and small violins swayed me upon waves, andoverflowed me with strong lavations, and sprinkled glistening foam inmy face, and in among the clarinetti, as among waving water-lilieswith plexile stems, pushed my easy way, and so, even lying in themusic waters, I floated and flowed, my soul utterly bent andprostrate. " Who has ever written more expressively of that ecstasythat lays hold of the sensuous soul of the lover of fine music?

Lanier is one of the heroic souls of song. Like Stevenson he wascheery enough to jest about his poverty. His contest with the demon ofWant seems to have been fiercer even than was the warfare waged by thegay romancer. Lanier wishes to meet Charlotte Cushman, but he is notsure that he can; he must sell a poem or two to get the price of asuitable new dress coat. "Alas, " he writes to the lady herself, inthat gay spirit of humor which is the strong defense of some sensitivesouls, "with what unspeakable care I would have brushed this presentgarment of mine in days gone by, if I had dreamed that the time wouldcome when so great a thing as a visit to _you_ might hang upon thelittle length of its nap! Behold, it is not only in man's breast thatpathos lies, and the very coat lapel that covers it may be a tragedy. "

The poetic temperament is commonly supposed to be at variance withdomestic tranquillity. The domestic life of Lanier is a contradictionto that popular belief. He ends one of his letters to his wife withthis petition, --"Let us lead them (the children) to love everythingin the world, above the world, and under the world adequately; that isthe sum and substance of a perfect life. And so God's divine rest beupon every head under the roof that covers thine this night, prayeththy husband. "

In his letter to Gibson Peacock, January 6, 1878, we have a charmingpicture of the delight of a man who has at last found a place to nesthis family, after some years of forlorn wanderings and uncertainties:

". .. I have also moved my family into our new home, have had aChristmas tree for the youngsters, have looked up a cheap school forHarry and Sidney, have discharged my daily duties as first flute ofthe Peabody Orchestra, have written a couple of poems and part of anessay on Beethoven and Bismarck, have accomplished at least a hundredthousand miscellaneous nothings. .. . We are in a state of supremecontent with our new home; it really seems to me as incredible thatmyriads of people have been living in their own homes heretofore; asto the young couple with a first baby it seems impossible that a greatmany other couples have had similar prodigies. Good heavens! how Iwish that the whole world had a home. 

"I confess that I am a little nervous about the gas bills, which mustcome in, in the course of time; and there are the water rates, andseveral sorts of imposts and taxes; but then the dignity of beingliable to such things is a very supporting consideration. No man is aBohemian who has to pay a water tax and a street tax. Every day when Isit down in my dining-room--_my_ dining-room! I find the wish growingstronger that each poor soul in Baltimore, whether saint or sinner, could come and dine with me. How I would carve out the merry-thoughtsfor the old hags! How I would stuff the big wan-eyed rascals tilltheir rags ripped again! There was a knight of old times who built thedining-hall of his castle across the highway, so that every wayfarermust perforce pass through; there the traveler, rich or poor, foundalways a trencher and wherewithal to fill it. Three times a day in myown chair at my own table, do I envy that knight and wish that I mightdo as he did. "

LXVIII

THE STORY OF MARK TWAIN'S DEBTS

The story of "Mark Twain's Debts" is told in _The Bookman_ byFrederick A. King. We are permitted to tell the story in Mr. King'sown words:

An anecdote is recorded of Mark Twain and General Grant, who, incompany with William D. Howells, once sat together at luncheon, spreadin the General's private office in the purlieus of Wall Street, in thedays when war and statesmanship had been laid aside, and the hero ofbattles and civic life was endeavoring to retrieve his scatteredfortunes by a trial of business. 

"Why don't you write your memoirs?" asked Mark Twain, mindful of howmuch there was to record, and how eager would be the readers of such awork. 

But the General with characteristic modesty demurred, and the pointwas not pressed. This was several years before the failure of the firmof Ward and Grant, which swept away the General's private fortune, leaving him an old man, broken in health, and filled with anxietyabout the provision for his family after he should be gone. 

When the evil days at last came, some memory of the suggestiondropped by his friend, the humorist--who could be immensely serious, too, when need be--may have led to the task that, in added contentionwith pain and suffering, constituted the last battle that the Generalshould fight. 

Whatever the influence moving General Grant to the final decision tocompose his memoirs, it happened, to his great fortune, that MarkTwain again called, and found that the work he had long ago suggestedwas at last in progress; but also that the inexperienced writer, modestly underestimating the commercial value of his forthcoming work, was about to sign away the putative profits. Fifty thousand dollarsoffered for his copyright seemed a generous sum to the unliteraryGeneral Grant, and it took the vehement persuasion of one who washimself a publisher to convince him that his prospective publisherswould not hesitate at quadrupling that sum rather than lose the chanceof publishing the book. 

When the conjecture was proven true, the General with characteristicgenerosity, withdrew the contract from his prospective publishers andplaced it in the hands of the firm that Mark Twain headed. All theprovisions were amply fulfilled; for when Mark Twain paid his lastvisit to the stricken author at the place of sojourn on MountMcGregor, he brought to the now speechless sufferer the smile ofhappiness and satisfaction by saying: "General, there is in the banknow royalties on advanced sales aggregating nearly $300, 000. It is atMrs. Grant's order. "

The anecdote is given at this length because, taken in connectionwith subsequent events dealing with General Grant's benefactor, itpoints a forceful illustration of the irony of fortune. There came aday when the very instrument by which Mark Twain was enabled toprovide a peaceful close to the life of a brave warrior, and toguarantee affluence for his family, delivered himself a stroke thatdissipated his own fortune at a time when age is supposed to haveabsorbed the vigor for a new grapple with destinies. 

In 1884 the publishing firm of C. L. Webster and Company was organizedto publish the works of Mark Twain. Of this firm Mark Twain waspresident; but he took little active part in the management of itsaffairs. Able to conceive in broad outlines successful policies, hewas singularly deficient in the power to handle the details of theirexecution. On April 18, 1894, the firm whose business enterprises hadalways figured in large sums through the immense popularity of theauthor-publisher's own works, the _Memoirs of General Grant_, and the_Life of Pope Leo_, made an assignment for the benefit of itscreditors. The bankrupt firm acknowledged liabilities approximating$80, 000. What in the ordinary view of commercial affairs would havefurnished but one item in the list of failures which record themisfortunes of ninety per cent who engage in business, became in thisinstance a notable case through the eminence of the chief actor. 

What might he have done?

The law could lay claim upon his personal assets. To surrender thesepossessions proved no act of self-sacrifice, considering his wife'sfortune, upon which the law had no claim. His wife, however, joinedhim in the act of renunciation, and they stood together penniless. Beyond this point there could be no legal, and, to many minds, nomoral responsibility for the debts of his firm. One can speculate uponthe force of the temptation to take advantage of the position. MarkTwain was sixty years old, and ill at that. Having sacrificed all hepossessed to meet the demands of his creditors, he might justly claimthe benefit of what remained of capacity for wealth-producing labor. His own words in reply to a slander which insinuated that he had setto work again for his own benefit are splendid for inspiration andhonesty:

"The law recognizes no mortgage on a man's brain, and a merchant whohas given up all he has may take advantage of the laws of insolvency, and start free again for himself; but I am not a business man, andhonor is a harder master than the law. It cannot compromise for lessthan a hundred cents on the dollar. "

. .. The great parallel case to the one here under examination is thatof Sir Walter Scott, who lost his all through the failure of hisprinters, the Ballantynes, and between January, 1826, and January, 1828, earned for his creditors nearly £40, 000. In the early stages ofthis trial he suffered acutely from the attitude of his friends, andhe records in his diary how some would smile as if to say: "Thinknothing about it, my lad; it is quite out of our thoughts;" how othersadopted an affected gravity "such as one sees and despises at afuneral, " while the best bred "just shook hands and went on. "

How the world treated Mark Twain we learn from the speech at thebanquet given by the Lotus Club on his return from his arduous journeyaround the world: "There were ninety-six creditors in all, and not bya finger's weight did ninety-five out of the ninety-six add to theburden of that time. "

"'Don't you worry, and don't you hurry, ' was what they said. " With thecourage of a man buffeted, but not beaten, he gathered himself up for"one more last try for fortune and fair fame. " In the latter part of1895 he started out on a tour of the English-speaking countries of theworld to give lectures and readings from his own works. 

There were misgivings, of course, as to the success of the venture. Here was a field not absolutely untried, but not hitherto cultivatedto the point of assured success. In 1873 he had made a lecture tour inEngland and in 1885 had given platform readings in company with GeorgeW. Cable. But age had sapped the zest for public appearance, and hewas skeptical of his power to move people with interest in his books. Moreover, there was a further thing to be considered, a possibleimpediment to success among the English colonies which he proposed tovisit. His popularity with Englishmen had never been great, owing tothe liberties he had taken with that nation's people in _InnocentsAbroad_. 

The latter apprehension was the more remote, however, for, startingfrom New York, he had a continent to traverse before embarking for theshores that held for him an uncertain welcome. To test his ability tointerest an audience, to "try it on the dog, " as they say intheatrical parlance, he subjected himself to the severest testpossible, crossed to Randall's Island and read before a company ofboys. Unsophisticated by the lecturer's reputation as a humorist, theboys proved to be the organs of sincerest testimony to the permanenceof the old power to amuse, and the first public appearance inCleveland, Ohio, was undertaken with fewer misgivings. 

From Vancouver, Mark Twain sailed for Sidney and gave readings beforethe English-speaking communities of Australia; then continued on toTasmania, New Zealand, Ceylon, India and South Africa. 

His fears as to his welcome among Englishmen were proved to begroundless. In Australia, great as was his success as a lecturer, hispersonal success outweighed even that, and the market on his books wasexhausted. We cannot follow him on this trip of mingled arduous laborand personal satisfaction. The humorous reactions of his homely visionupon the quaint, the bizarre, the pretentious, aspects of life inremote parts of the world may be read in his own record of thisjourney, _Following the Equator_. There are few things to record ofthis great effort to pay his debts. 

In India he was taken ill, but the disease was not severe. In June, 1897, when he had circled the globe and had settled for a time inLondon, cablegrams came from that city announcing his mental andphysical collapse. The English-speaking world was stricken withsympathy, and the New York _Herald_ at once began a subscription fundfor his relief. The report was contradicted at once, but admirationfor the author's strenuous effort seemed to grow, and the _Herald_fund was assuming generous proportions when the followingcharacteristic message declining to accept the relief came from theproposed beneficiary:

 I was glad when you instituted that movement, for I was tired of the fact and worry of debt, but I recognized that it is not permissible for a man whose case is not hopeless to shift his burden to other men's shoulders. 

In November of the same year a report was circulated that he was outof debt, but from Vienna, whither he had gone to live, came a laconiccablegram nailing the optimistic impeachment:

 Lie. Wrote no such letters. Still deeply in debt. 

Nearly half of the original indebtedness needed to be paid, and here, with scarcely an opposing voice in judgment, he might have waived theclaim upon himself for his firm's responsibilities, but he avowed thathe would pay dollar for dollar. 

The time of accomplishment was not long in coming. When theundertaking was begun, it was with the resolution to clear up the debtin three years. Allowing for the unexpected, it was feared it wouldtake four, then at the age of sixty-four a new start in life would beopen to the author, who might point to a considerable occupancy ofspace on library shelves and regard a life work accomplished. It tookbut two years and a half to pay the debt. He began the effort thelatter part of 1895 and finished it in the early part of 1898. 

His return to America and his home in 1900 was, in the unromanticprocedure of our self-conscious days, of the nature of a triumph. Hewas formally welcomed by the Lotus Club, and, of course, as delicatelyas might be, he was praised for his honesty. His reply to complimentwas a generous recognition of social virtue, which renders easier suchan effort as he made. 

Said he:

 Your president has referred to certain burdens which I was weighted with. I am glad he did, as it gives me an opportunity which I wanted. To speak of those debts--you all knew what he meant when he referred to it, and to the poor bankrupt firm of C. L. Webster and Company. No one has said a word about those creditors. There were ninety-six creditors in all, and not by a finger's weight did ninety-five out of the ninety-six add to the burden of that time. They treated me well; they treated me handsomely. I never knew I owed them anything; not a sign came from them. 

The story is one of simple elements, and suits the prosaic characterof our age. It does not match Sir Walter's for romance. There was nosuch brain-racking work; no forcing of the phantasmal multitude of thepoet's brain to dance to pay the expenses of the funeral; no mediævalcastle to sacrifice; no tragic failure of the ultimate goal. Whatthere is of real romance seems obscured by the facts of more or lesssafe speculation upon assured futures. It was a safe business venture. 

The hero was not unworthy of the praises which his peers at the Lotusdinner were glad to lavish. Said St. Clair McKelway:

"He has enough excess and versatility to be a genius. He has enoughquality and quantity of virtues to be a saint. But he has honorablytransmuted his genius into work, whereby it has been brought intorelations with literature and with life. And he has preferred warmfellowship to cool perfection, so that sinners love him and saints arecontent to wait for him. "

LXIX

HAMLIN GARLAND'S LITERARY BEGINNING

Hamlin Garland is one of the writers whose name suggests the greatNorthwest. He was born in Wisconsin in 1860, went to Iowa and later toDakota, striving at an early age to wrest a living from the soil. Atten years of age he plowed seventy acres of land. His vividdescriptions of Western farm-life are not the results of reading andcasual observation, supplemented by a vivid imagination; they are theproducts of actual experiences. 

In a personal interview with Mr. Garland, Frank G. Carpenter gives usthe following interesting particulars:

"The conversation here turned to Mr. Garland's literary work, and hetold me how he was first led to write by reading Hawthorne's _Mossesfrom an Old Manse_. This book so delighted him that he wanted to writeessays like it for a living, and he practised at this during theintervals of his school-teaching and studying for years. It was notuntil he was older that he attempted fiction or poetry. The story ofhis first published article is a curious one. Said he:

"'My first literary success was a poem which I wrote for _Harper'sWeekly_, entitled 'Lost in the Norther. ' It was a poem describing ablizzard and the feelings of a man lost in it. I received twenty-fivedollars for it. '

"'That must have been a good deal of money to you then, Mr. Garland?'

"'It was, ' was the reply. 'It was my first money in literature, and Ispent it upon my father and mother. I paid five dollars for a copy ofGrant's _Memoirs_, which I sent father, and with the remaining twentydollars I bought a silk dress for my mother. It was the first silkdress she had ever had. '

"'When did you write your first fiction?'

"'My mother got half of the money I received for that, ' replied Mr. Garland, 'as it was due to her that I wrote it. I had been studying inBoston for several years, when I went out to Dakota to visit myparents. The night after I arrived I was talking with mother about oldtimes and old friends. She told me how one family had gone back to NewYork for a visit, and had returned very happy, in getting back totheir Western home. As she told the story, the pathos of it struck me. I went into another room and began to write. The story was one of thebest chapters of my book _Main-Traveled Roads_. I read it to mother, and she liked it, and upon telling her that I thought it was worth atleast seventy-five dollars, she replied: "Well, if that is so, I thinkyou ought to _divvy_ with me, for I gave you the story. " "I will, "said I, and so, when I got my seventy-five dollars, I sent her a checkfor thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents. I got many other goodsuggestions during that trip to Dakota. I wrote poems and stories. Some of the stories were published in _The Century_, and I rememberthat I received six hundred dollars within two weeks from its editors. It was perhaps a year later before I published my first book. It had agood sale, and I have been writing from that day to this. '

"Hamlin Garland spends a part of every year in the West. He has boughtthe old home place where he was born in Wisconsin, and he has there alittle farm of four acres, upon which he raises asparagus, strawberries, onions, and bushels of other things. His mother liveswith him. During my talk with him the other night he said: 'I like theWest and the Western people. I have been brought up with them, and Iexpect to devote my life to writing about them. I spend a portion ofeach summer on the Rocky Mountains, camping out. I like to go where Ican sleep in the open air and have elbow-room away from the crowdedcity. '"

LXX

STEPHEN CRANE: A "WONDERFUL BOY"

In 1900, Stephen Crane, while yet barely thirty, died. His earlypassing away was widely regarded as a loss to American literature. InEngland he was especially admired as a vigorous writer. His _The RedBadge of Courage_ won him wide recognition as a keen analyst. Oldsoldiers who read the story could not believe that it was written by aboy who was born after the war had ended. By many critics his storiesof boyhood are considered the writings that shall be longestremembered. Shortly before his death Mr. Crane wrote the followingletter to the editor of a Rochester daily:

"My father was a Methodist minister, author of numerous works oftheology, and an editor of various periodicals of the church. He was agraduate of Princeton, and he was a great, fine, simple mind. As formyself, I went to Lafayette College, but did not graduate. I foundmining-engineering not at all to my taste. I preferred base-ball. Later I attended Syracuse University, where I attempted to studyliterature, but found base-ball again much more to my taste. My firstwork in fiction was for the New York _Tribune_, when I was eighteenyears old. During this time, one story of the series went into the_Cosmopolitan_. At the age of twenty I wrote my first novel--_Maggie_. It never really got on the market, but it made for me the friendshipof William Dean Howells and Hamlin Garland, and since that time I havenever been conscious for an instant that those friendships have at alldiminished. After completing _Maggie_, I wrote mainly for the New York_Press_ and for _The Arena_. In the latter part of my twenty-firstyear I began _The Red Badge of Courage_, and completed it early in mytwenty-second year. The year following I wrote the poems contained inthe volume known as _The Black Riders_. On the first day of lastNovember I was precisely twenty-nine years old and had finished myfifth novel, _Active Service_. I have only one pride, and that is thatthe English edition of _The Red Badge of Courage_ has been receivedwith great praise by the English reviewers. I am proud of this simplybecause the remoter people would seem more just and harder to win. "

In another letter to the same editor he writes about his literarysincerity:

"The one thing that deeply pleases me is the fact that men of senseinvariably believe me to be sincere. I know that my work does notamount to a string of dried beans--I always calmly admit it--but Ialso know that I do the best that is in me without regard to praise orblame. When I was the mark for every humorist in the country, I wentahead; and now when I am the mark for only fifty per cent of thehumorists of the country, I go ahead; for I understand that a man isborn into the world with his own pair of eyes, and he is not at allresponsible for his vision--he is merely responsible for his qualityof personal honesty. To keep close to this personal honesty is mysupreme ambition. "

LXXI

EUGENE FIELD

The general public will always remember Eugene Field as the author of_Little Boy Blue_, the many friends of Field, in addition to theirmemory of him as the charming poet of childhood, will always think ofhim as the irrepressible prince of merry-makers. To perpetrate a jokeField spared neither labor nor his friends. Many of his pranks weremere whimsicalities, innocent pleasantries that hurt no one. He wouldspend three hours in illustrating a letter to a friend, filling theletter with gossipy trivialities and using six different kinds of inkto make it look grotesque. 

During the last years of Field's too brief life he was importuned sofrequently for the facts concerning his career that he printed a briefbiography or _Auto-Analysis_, as he called it. This contains agenerous portion of fiction mingled with some fact. He begins hisautobiography with:

"I was born in St. Louis, Mo. , September 3, 1850. .. . Upon the death ofmy mother (1856), I was put in the care of my (paternal) cousin, MissMary Field French, at Amherst, Mass. 

"In 1865 I entered the private school of Rev. James Tufts, Monson, Mass. , and there fitted for Williams College, which institution Ientered as a freshman in 1868. Upon my father's death, in 1869, Ientered the sophomore class of Knox College, Galesburg, Ill. , myguardian, John W. Burgess, now of Columbia College, being then aprofessor in that institution. But in 1870 I went to Columbia, Mo. , and entered the State University there, and completed my junior yearwith my brother. In 1872 I visited Europe, spending six months and mypatrimony in France, Italy, Ireland, and Italy. In May, 1873, I becamea reporter on the St. Louis _Evening Journal_. In October of that yearI married Miss Julia Sutherland Comstock (born in Chenango Co. , N. Y. ), of St. Joseph, Mo. , at that time a girl of sixteen. We have had eightchildren--three daughters and five sons. "

This is not all of the autobiography. There are about a thousand wordsmore. The reason Field attended three collegiate institutions is thathis mischievous pranks made him _persona non grata_ to the collegeauthorities. In after years the old historian of Knox College wrote:"He was prolific of harmless pranks and his school life was a bigjoke. "

The gay irresponsibility of Field is early illustrated in the recklessmanner in which he spent "six months and his patrimony" in Europe. In1872 Field received $8, 000, the first portion of his patrimony. Heproposed to a young friend, Comstock, the brother of Julia, whom helater married, that they go to Europe. Field offered to bear all theexpenses of the trip. They went and for six months they had a glorioustime. Soon the money was gone; he telegraphed for more; was obligedto sell the odd curios he had gathered to pay his way home. Thisexpenditure of his money in a trip abroad is not so unprofitable aventure as it appears. The elder Field had left a fortune valued at$60, 000; Eugene's share was to be about $25, 000. In two years he spentabout $20, 000. His brother Roswell, more prudent, lived for severalyears on his share but finally, owing to the depreciation of realestate values, saw his fortune dwindle away. He is said to have enviedthe shrewdness of Eugene in spending his money when he had it. 

Field had the highest respect for womankind. In his _Auto-Analysis_ hewrites: "I am fond of companionship of women, and I have nounconquerable prejudice against feminine beauty. I recall with pridethat in twenty-two years of active journalism I have always written inreverential praise of womankind. " This respect for womankind, however, did not prevent him from playing pranks upon his wife. On theirwedding journey he delighted to tease his young Julia by ordering atDelmonico's "boiled pig's feet à la St. Jo. " A few years later aquartet was accustomed to meet at Eugene's home. Field did not singwith the quartet but as a fifth member acted as reader or reciter intheir little entertainments. Eugene delighted to tease his wife bywalking into the parlor when the quartet was practicing at his homeand saying: "Well, boys, let us take off our coats and take it easy;it's too hot. " When this was done, Eugene would blaze forth in thebrilliancy of a red flannel undershirt, with white cuffs and collarpinned to his shirt. 

When Carl Schurz was making his senatorial campaign in Missouri, Fieldwas sent with the party to report the meetings. Field, althoughgreatly admiring Schurz, took great delight in misreporting Schurz, whose only comment would be: "Field, why will you lie sooutrageously?" One evening when a group of German serenaders hadassembled in front of the hotel to do honor to Schurz, Field rushedout and pretending to be Schurz, addressed them in broken English. Atanother time, at a political meeting, Field suddenly stepped out tothe front and began:

"Ladies and Shentlemen: I haf such a pad colt dot et vas not bossiblefor me to make you a speedg to-night, but I haf die bleasure tointroduce to you my brilliant chournalistic friendt Euchene Fielt, whowill spoke you in my blace. "

While in Denver Field worked upon the _Tribune_. Over his deskhung, --"This is my busy day, " and on the wall, --"God bless ourproofreader, He can't call for him too soon. " In his office he kept anold bottomless black-walnut chair. Across its yawning chasm he wouldcarelessly thrown old newspapers. As it was the only unoccupied chairin the room, the casual visitor would drop unsuspectingly into thetrap. The angry subscriber who had come to wreak vengeance upon thewriter of irritating personalities could not withstand the apparentlysincere apologies which Field lavished upon his victim. It was sohumiliating to a man of Field's sensibilities to be obliged to receivesuch important visitors in an office whose very furniture indicatedthe poverty of the newspaper. 

In 1883 Field moved to Chicago, where the rest of his life waspassed. Mr. Stone, one of the proprietors of _The News_, had gone toDenver to have a personal interview with Field, whose work hadattracted attention in the newspaper world. Field stipulated that hewas to have a column a day for his own use. The Chicago public soonwas attracted by the brilliant versatility of the writer of "Sharpsand Flats, " the title of the column written by Field. 

Some months after Field had moved to Chicago he concluded that thegeneral public ought to know that he had arrived. It was a coldmorning in December. "So he arrayed himself in a long linen duster, buttoned up from knees to collar, put an old straw hat on his head, and taking a shabby book under one arm and a palm-leaf fan in hishand, he marched all the way down Clark Street, past the City Hall, tothe office. Everywhere along the route he was greeted with jeers orpitying words, as his appearance excited the mirth or commiseration ofthe passers-by. When he reached the entrance to the _Daily News_office he was followed by a motley crowd of noisy urchins whom hedismissed with a grimace and the cabalistic gesture with whichNicholas Koorn perplexed and repulsed Antony Van Corlear from thebattlement of the fortress of Rensellaerstein. Then closing the doorin their astonished faces, he mounted the two flights of stairs to theeditorial rooms, where he recounted, with the glee of the boy he wasin such things, the success of his joke. "

Field had execrable taste in dress and he knew it. Consequently heenjoyed presenting neckties to his friends. His biographer, SlasonThompson, who worked in the same newspaper office, separated only by alow thin partition, relates that in the afternoon about two o'clockField would stick his head above the partition and say, --"Come along, Nompy, and I'll buy you a new necktie, " and when Thompson woulddecline the offer, Field would mildly respond, "Very well, if youwon't let me buy you a necktie, you must buy me a lunch, " and off tothe coffee-house they would march, where the bill would be paid byThompson, for Field was indeed through life the gay knight he styledhimself, _sans peur and sans monnaie_. 

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